


Tell Me A Tale of a Girl and Her Prince

by frostedarsenic (thebittermountain)



Series: Reimagining Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Ashara and Brandon equals Jon, Blackmail, But tagging b/c Jaime & Cersei, Canon Divergence - Bran Stark Doesn't Fall, Elia Martell Lives, F/F, F/M, Greenseers, Hoster Tully Being an Asshole, Incest, Lyarra Stark Lives, Lysa Tully Is Sane, Lysa Tully is Happy, Magic, Myrcella is intelligent, No Direwolves Die In The Making of This Story, Not Canon Compliant, POV Catelyn Tully Stark, POV Doran Martell, POV Elia Martell, POV Myrcella Baratheon, POV Ned Stark, POV Sansa Stark, POV Stannis Baratheon, POV Third Person, POV Tyrion Lannister, Robert Baratheon Being an Asshole, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The North Is Like Dorne, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Wargs, also, not graphic, so many direwolves, very much not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/frostedarsenic
Summary: In which: Dorne and the North realize that they have a lot in common, the Starks are slightly more suspicious (but they still don't see everything), Elia Martell is the best aunt and mom, and we can explore humans humaning without every single person dying, thanks.





	1. In Another World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intro and Prologue to this AU, basically.

In another world, many things were different. In another world, Eddard Stark married Catelyn Tully, and bowed to her wishes. In another world, Lyarra Stark died giving birth to her fourth child. In another world, Eddard Stark was fostered from eight until sixteen in the Eyrie, becoming more Westerosi than Northern. In another world, Jon Snow was born a Targaryen, and Ashara Dayne died. In another world, Arthur Dayne was slain by Howland Reed. In another world, Rhaella Targaryen’s children survived. In another world, Elia Martell and her children died.

In another world, Dorne and the North had nothing to do with each other, though their favored daughters had both died from Rhaegar’s mistakes.

Nonetheless, there are some things that are harder to change. Even if decency and happiness win out, they can often be hard-won.

In this world, the man known to Westeros as Eddard Stark of Winterfell still married Catelyn Tully. In this world, Catelyn still hated the boy known as Jon Snow. In this world, Catelyn still tried to fill her eldest daughter’s ladylike mind with tales and dreams of the Southern kingdoms. In this world, Lyanna Stark still died.

In this world, Cersei Lannister still married Robert Baratheon. In this world, Aerys Targaryen was still “The Mad King.” In this world, Rhaegar had still crowned Lyanna Stark. In this world, the Lannisters still controlled the crown. In this world, Petyr Baelish still clawed his way to power. In this world, Jaime and Cersei still carried on their toxic, incestuous relationship.

But in this world, Eddard Stark was no kind, honorable man faithful to a bar of behavior no one else held. In this world, Eddard Stark was a Northerner to the bone, who saw his former friend for the man he truly was and took the time to know his sister and younger brother. In this world, the Stark children had no southern Septa. In this world, Lyarra Stark taught all of her grandchildren to fight in the northern way. In this world, the Stark children followed the old gods. In this world, Sansa Stark is still a lady, but she is a _northern_ lady.

In this world, the north had no issue with bastards. In this world, Jon was loved.

In this world, it was Elia Martell who Lyanna fell for, and Elia Martell who she died defending.

In this world, it was Oberyn and Elia who bore Lyanna’s bones home in state, bringing with them an offer of friendship and quiet alliance from Princess Loreza. In this world, Ashara Dayne came to Winterfell as proof of Dorne’s friendship to be Winterfell’s new steward. In this world, she brought with her a tiny grey-eyed boy, her son.

In this world, Elia Martell is known to the Stark children as Aunt Elia, and her two children renamed Sands. In this world, her children have two names—those they were born with, and those their Dornish mother gave them.

In this world, the children of the North are fostered between each other. In this world, Ramsay Snow does not exist. In this world, women can reign in the North.

In this world, the Dornish are the only outsiders with true bonds to the North.

In this world, the Others are no undead, but a long-living folk much as the Children of the Forest and the giants. While the crannogmen and the Marshes are said to have intermarried with the Children, it is said that the Starks, Dustins, and Boltons have intermarried with the Others, and the Flints and Umbers with giants. Though the Wall is still claimed to be built to ward against the Others, the truth is far more complicated and obscure.

The Westeros of this world is still a world of vicious and virulent politics, still a world of the game of thrones. Only the players have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes: 
> 
> This is a major, major canon divergence, and therefore, the characters are going to act significantly differently in a lot of ways, though some stay much the same. I only will listen to OOC criticism of those characters whose actions and storylines do not change much. 
> 
> Also, I did some extra worldbuilding in a lot of places because I took issue with some gaps. Hence some new languages, which I will generally translate in-chapter or in other chapter notes. 
> 
> Feel free to ask questions about what I'm planning.


	2. A Trout Cannot Become A Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Catelyn does not understand the North (or her in-laws)

_286 AC—Winterfell, The North // Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein, Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej _

Catelyn Tully was afraid. Her maids, most of them Northern, were no help, and neither was the steward, Dame Dayne, Dornish as she was. Not to mention, her bastard boy Jon looking uncomfortably like a Stark.

Catelyn was no idiot. She had heard the whispers about Dame Dayne and the two eldest Stark brothers. She knew Seignur Eddard was far from in love with her. She had not expected love to begin with, though Brandon had made her heart pound. But she had hoped that naming their newborn son after her lord husband’s foster-brother would make the sober young lord smile instead of frown and stalk off, muttering under his breath.

A small whimper drew Catelyn from her dreary thoughts, and she looked down at her newborn daughter. She couldn’t help smiling down at tiny Sansa’s bewildered and demanding face, though she still felt fear wrapping cold fingers around her heart. She returned to the small nursery, settling down on a large pillow to feed her baby daughter.

The nursery was where her goodmother found her hours later, imperious as usual.

“Catelyn, you better in here have been, I have looked everywhere else—” Lyarra Stark cut off as she entered the room, Catelyn looking up with a start. She curtsied deeply, the motion awkward with Sansa still at her breast, surprised to find the older woman staring at Sansa with a peculiar expression. She stiffened, a shiver running down her spine.

“Welcome home, Dame Stark. Did your trip to your family lands go well?” When her goodmother merely nodded, gaze still fixed on Sansa, Catelyn added, her heart in her throat, “May I introduce to you your granddaughter, Sansa Stark?”

“Sansa,” Lyarra breathed, pronouncing it in her strange northern way, with the first S sounding more like a “ch” and the last A becoming nasal. “A northern name?” Catelyn nodded nervously.

“I thought it would please my lord.” Her goodmother didn’t respond, instead taking Sansa from her arms without so much as a request, and Catelyn couldn’t prevent herself from gasping, worried about what the fierce older woman who ruled Winterfell with a gloved iron fist, especially when its lord was not home, would do with her Tully-haired daughter. Sansa was a mere few weeks old, and already had a thick head of red hair, deeper than her brother’s, who at the least had a touch of brown to his.

Though Catelyn’s mind was wild with fears—some outlandish, others far more rational—she could not even begin to imagine what actually occurred. Lyarra Stark’s face softened in a way she had not at seeing her grandson—the heir—upon beholding the babe in her arms with a closer look.

“A child of the old gods and the Others. Oh, we blessed are.” Catelyn blinked, processing the whispered words she had just heard before shivering.

“_What_ did you say, ma dame Stark?” Lyarra turned to her with a raised brow as she settled a sleepy Sansa more firmly in her arms.

“No matter you your head should worry about, Catelyn. I our new little _ujän_ shall take to greet her uncle. You perhaps should locate the little lord.” Catelyn nodded, not otherwise moving a muscle until her goodmother’s footsteps had long faded away. She let out a long, shaky breath, realizing she had set one worry aside only for another to spring up in its place.

Mother give her strength, and Crone give her wisdom.

What Catelyn Stark did not realize—and perhaps she never would—was that she was praying to the wrong gods. The Seven did not reach their fingers far into the North, especially not to the mother of a girl with weirwood hair and the look of the Night Queen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. I am not bashing Catelyn. I think she's interesting as a character. However, she has her flaws as much as any other character in Game of Thrones. 
> 
> And I think she would have even more issues in a North where she is not given a sept, has to fight for authority over Winterfell, and has to deal with a bunch of Dornish strangers. It's a lot to adjust to, especially with as many prejudices as she has. 
> 
> It doesn't help her that the Northerners in this world are overtly scornful of her and friendly with the Dornish.
> 
> Translations:  
Dame = Lady (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Ma = my (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Seignur = lord (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Ujän = lady (The Northern Tongue)


	3. Winter Wolves and Sun-Kissed Spears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elia mothers people, Doran worries, and Sansa learns things

_Fall 290 AC—Sunspear, Dorne // Berosighiorơ, Torñe_

Toran worried whenever Elia journeyed to the Land of Enduring Snow. Not because he mistrusted the most northern northrons. Not any more than he mistrusted people in general.

Though not all of the frozen kingdom’s people were to be trusted, Toran had no doubts in regard to their Teghünmariz and his family. No, he worried about his sister’s fragile health and the agents of the usurper. Robert Baratheon (or rather his hand, Jon Arryn), had reluctantly “pardoned” Elia and her children upon learning of Ariña Liana Ŝarqa’s death defending her, and Liana’s lack of child from Rhaegar. But that action in no way discouraged his agents. Varys prized stability, and as long as Elia and her children lived, they were a threat to said stability.

“Toran! Cease that long face, your sister is in good health.” He winced at the solid smack to his knees from his mother’s heavy oaken cane and glared up at her from his chair. Aeksodarion Loreza, unintimidated, glared right back at her oldest son and heir, bent by age and illness, but no less formidable for it. Toran sighed, rubbing his now sore kneecaps, and asked pointedly,

“And by what means do you know that, mơña?” She promptly handed him a heavy parchment letter, with a broken seal of quartered Ŝarq-Martel arms. Toran gave her a wry look before settling back to read.

_Dear brother, _

_Please cease your worrying—it is bad for your health. If that fails to convince you—as I believe it might—perhaps you should consider that you are only behaving like Oberin. Who, I might trouble to remind you, is ten years your younger._

Toran snorted. Oh, Elia.

_As is obvious from this letter, I arrived quite safely in_ Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej. _Teghünmariz Ŝarq and Aszara greeted me in White Harbor. Her son has already reached her waist; perhaps she should have named him for sunflowers or winter trees instead of giving him a northron name. Jon looks so like his father; it is if I am seeing Eksio _Bronyeän_ in miniature every time I set eyes on the boy._

_Ariña_ _Catelyn notices this too, and I believe it pains her. She will say little against him whenever ‘Zara is within earshot, but I have been here but a fortnight, and already I have heard her rail against him. She is a rigid woman in her thinking, and the image of _Bronyeän_’s unfaithfulness has only worsened her antipathy against bastards. I am wondering, dear brother, since Aszara seems happy with her position and occupation, if we should consider fostering _Jon_ with us in a few years._

Toran paused, tapping the parchment thoughtfully against his chin before continuing.

_Teghünmariz _Ŝarq _has been a perfect host as of yet, and he seems to have taken the advice I gave him when I brought my heart to his hall. Young eksionen _Rus Räswyel_, _Varin Ivyerumodyev_, and _Žomyeric Bulson_ are fostering with him, as are _Jonyel Syerwinsga_, _Alis Garŝarqa_, and the two _Ombyer_ daughters._

_ There are plans already for Eksio _Rob_ to foster with the _Vlinž _in a few years,_ _though I have heard many conflicting rumors in regard to young Ariña _Tsonse_._ _The _Riž_ seem close with Teghünmariz_ Ŝarq_ as well, and _Barbri Räswyela _spends a great deal of time in his hall._

_Toran, I believe it would be advisable for either Keliria or Remorlje to be fostered in the North, and one of the future _Ŝarq_ children in Torñe, if that is agreeable to you and Mơña. To that end, I also advise that you develop and strengthen your Northern deals._ Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej_ is no place to be ignored; we can cultivate its quiet influence._

Toran blinked as he turned to the next page, his sister having abruptly changed subjects.

_My sympathies on Mellario’s departure. I know you loved her, and that you likely do so still. Remember your luck, however, brother mine. You have not lost her to death, and you have her children to remember her by and retain a connection. I have nothing such for Liana but memories and a statue._

<strike>_Toran…do not close yourself to love. Liana may have been the love of my life, but I do not believe Mellario was yours. She never did understand you_. </strike>

_Mơña, I know you read this, so I address this part to you. Ariña_ Ŝarqa_, Teghünmariz_ Ŝarq_’s mother, rules the roost, and is a delightful woman whose attitude and personality reminds me of yourself and Ariña Olenna. I know you still keep up a correspondence with the Ariña_ _Dowager Tyrell; I believe you would enjoy such with Ariña _Ŝarqa_._

_with much love, _

_your Elia _

_\- Keliria wishes to know when her _moñek_ Oberin will return, and if he will bring home any new cousins when he does so. _

_-Remorlje simply wants to send his love and make it clear that he misses the Water Gardens._

* * *

_Early Spring 291 AC— Winterfell, The North // Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein, Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej_

“_Nyengäa_ Elia, would you please tell us a story?” Elia Martel smiled at her niece, the daughter of her heart’s wife, Liana, and the best friend of her daughter Keliria, as the five year old tugged at her skirts with wide eyes.

In many ways, Tsonse Ŝarqa was already a lady, in both the southron and northron manner, but the one exception was when she was eager to hear stories of Torñe. For some reason, Tsonse was fascinated by the southernmost kingdom, perhaps because of its sheer difference and distance.

Keliria, of course, always wanted to hear more of her mother’s childhood, and so only encouraged her friend. Elia had no intention of ignoring their eager, bright faces, but pretended otherwise, teasing the three girls—for little Aria was perpetually toddling after them—slightly as she adjusted her hold on baby Bron, the newest Ŝarq, and Zara’s new daughter, Zulbyera.

“Oh, I don’t know girls. Surely you have no wish to hear the ramblings of an old woman such as myself?” Tsonse’s little face was the picture of outrage, and Keliria’s expression was little better. Elia abandoned her teasing before they could further their protests. “Very well, what do you wish to hear? A story of my mother? My father? My brothers?”

The brightness of the girls’ small faces at the last made the answer obvious. And not at all surprising. Keliria adored her uncles, who would have spoiled her rotten if Elia and her father had not been there to administer discipline. Elia had to admit to surprise, however, when Keliria begged for a story of Toran. Though her eldest loved her older uncle, she had spent much more time with Oberin, the two having much in common, with their boundless curiosity, love of travel, hot tempers, and fascination with poisons and medicines.

Still, Keliria was insistent, and Elia never could resist telling stories about either of her brothers to such an attentive audience, so she settled Bron and Zulbyera in their cradles before beginning to speak.

“Once, not so long ago, there was a prince who was fortunate enough to fall in love. This prince felt guilty for his good fortune, for neither his sister or brother were lucky enough to fall in love with someone who they could marry…”

* * *

_Fall 291 AC—Sunspear, Dorne // Berosighiorơ, Torñe _

Toran was more than a little startled upon discovering Oberin’s traveling companions when his brother arrived home from his (always) lengthy travels. Not at the indication he had stopped at the Winter-Built Hall, for Oberin had indicated as such with his last raven, but with those who had returned with him.

He walked forward, a wide smile on his face.

“Ariña Aszara, Ghiovala Deñe! It is quite the pleasure to see the both of you after all these years.” Aszara smiled equally broadly in return, bringing forward a man looking a few years younger than Oberin, whose appearance was oddly familiar.

“Darilendarion Toran, the pleasure is returned. You look well, my friend.” She whispered in the man’s ear, and he bowed as she added, “May I introduce my paramour, Byenjen Ŝarq, and my son Jon Tsasyen. I have come to request Jon’s fostering with your own family, my prince, and present a request from Teghünmariz Ŝarq.”

Toran raised a brow, ignoring Oberin’s smirk, Obara rolling her eyes, and Eksio Byenjen shifting awkwardly on his feet. The heir of Torñe was relieved that Oberin had chosen to moor his ship in the royal docks, and that his crew was entirely composed of Martel cousins. Nonetheless, he intentionally lowered his voice as he asked drily,

“Aszara, might I be correct in assuming the Teghünmariz of the North wishes a member of our family to foster with his own?” His sister’s best friend nodded, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Teghünmariz Ŝarq would likely appreciate my adding that he intends to send his second daughter Aria to foster with you as well after she turns eight.” Obara took the opportunity to speak at this point, earning everyone’s attention. Oberin’s eldest had never been one for words, preferring action to speech to the point that some mistakenly assumed her mute.

“Ariña Aria would fit in well with us, Eksio lepeka. She may only be toddling, but she has the same fire and passion that is possessed by Martels. In her siblings, it is tempered, but in Aria it burns brightly.” Toran blinked, taking a moment to think through both her and Aszara’s words. Finally, he nodded, and turned to Byenjen.

“Eksio Byenjen, I welcome you to Torñe on behalf of my mother, the Aeksodarion Loreza Martel. It is a pleasure to meet the brother of whom Ariña Liana spoke so fondly.” Liana’s youngest brother flushed and stammered his thanks and reciprocal pleasure. Toran allowed him to recover his equilibrium, bending down to eye-level of Aszara’s son. “Eksio Jon, I welcome you to Torñe as well. As I will be your foster-father, I beseech you to call me uncle, though I realize you already have more than enough of those.” Jon looked questioningly up at his mother, and over to Obara, who both nodded at him encouragingly before returning his attention to Toran.

“Thank you, eksio hasañi. I appreciate the privilege,” he said in a quiet, but mostly steady voice. Toran smiled, and straightened, bringing his attention to Artur’s frustrated face. Aszara and Oberin both followed his gaze, snorting. Aszara smacked her brother, remarking that,

“Really, brother, it’s a good thing you’re pretty and skilled at weapons.” Artur sputtered at her, and she put her hands on her hips. “Do you truly believe I would bring my eight-year-old son all the way home if my assurance of both my plan and his welcome was not certain?” Everyone within earshot now appeared extremely amused, and Toran had no doubt his expression would reflect the same. He decided to put poor Artur out of his misery.

“All this banter reminds me fondly of my childhood, but I am sure none of us wish to get rained on, and those clouds appear rather frightening. Not to mention, I believe father might very well stab us if we wait any longer to greet him.” Oberin snorted as he sauntered past Toran, not even waiting for his older brother to turn toward the palace. Toran shook his head, sighing with resignation. Oberin never changed.

Though to be fair, Elios Karghalen Martel was by no means a hot-tempered man, let alone a violent one. He was much more likely to give his children a disappointed look rather than injure them.

Toran offered his arm to Obara, who took it with a sharp grin, while the Deñes and Eksio Byenjen fell in behind, trailed by a few guards, Areo Hotah lingering at the last.

“Darling niece, would you deign to inform your uncle of your latest travels, or shall I have to prevail upon Oberin for those?” Her grin became sharper. “Of course not, Lepeka. He would leave out the embarrassing bits.”

* * *

_Summer Harvest, 294 AC—Winterfell, The North // Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein, Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej _

Tsonse Ŝarq sighed with frustration at her cousin’s unsatisfying letter. Jon simply did not understand what was vital to include in a letter. She glared at the letter some more and tucked in quickly into her dress pocket upon hearing footsteps.

She looked up to see Ujän Barbri coming into view, balancing the baby, Byetsani, on her hip. She curtsied, ignoring the voice in her head that sounded a lot like _Maere_, claiming Ujän Barbri should be ashamed to have such a visible sign of her sin. She loved Mother, but she was wrong about an awful lot. Like how Aria should behave, or how Tsonse’s name should be pronounced.

“Tsasyen ŝyesasuvan, what has that dark look on your face? You should be out celebrating the Harvest.” Ujän Barbri asked, using her special nickname for Tsonse.

“Myema, I did. It’s only—Jon’s letter came, and I read it, and—” She could feel her words starting to tumble together, and her face grew hot. She tried to stumble along, but it only grew worse. Finally, she gave up to a sullen silence, not sure why this was upsetting her so much. Ujän Barbri sat down in front of Tsonse’s little nook with next to no fuss, something else that made her different from _Maere_, and adored by Aria.

Ujän Barbri was decidedly a lady, but she was no _southron_ lady, putting her solidly in the category of women that Tsonse’s little sister idolized, among such lofty personages as Nyengäa Liana, Ujän Mej Murmonsa, and Byemuŝga Liara. That, more than anything, caused Tsonse to hesitate. She didn’t want one of the most important women in her life to look down at her for her fascination about southrons.

Then again, Ujän Barbri had never been disrespectful to or about any of the Torñish who now populated Žumyeltsa in steadily increasing pockets, which, unfortunately, was more than _Maere_ had ever done.

Tsonse chewed her lip, looking nervously up at her governess and second mother. Ujän Barbri had her usual cool and stoic expression, only softened briefly as she looked down to soothe Byetsani’s fussing. That, in and of itself, was reassuring enough to push away most of Tsonse’s worries as she reminded herself that little could truly disturb her governess’s icy façade, and rarely was it any of the children. She took a breath to steady herself and pushed past the remaining nervousness.

“Myema, he doesn’t know how to speak about Torñe. I wish to know more about the prince and his land, and all Jon talks about is dresses and ladies. That isn’t enough!” Ujän Barbri’s mouth twitched.

“It isn’t? I thought you enjoyed discussing fashions and courts. Jon is a good cousin to remember such in his letters to you.” Tsonse sighed at her with a slight glare.

“Myema!”

“I know, dear one. I was only teasing. But what has you so suddenly fascinated with the far south?” Tsonse stiffened her spine and tried to sound calm.

“It is far from sudden, Myema. I have always loved the stories Keliria and Nyengäa Elia tell. Torñe seems so much the same, and so different.” Ujän Barbri only kept staring calmly at her, as if knowing that wasn’t all she had to say. Tsonse pouted briefly, then added, “I miss her. Remorlje is nice, but he prefers Theon and the older boys to any of us girls.” She looked down, kicking a loose stone with her slippers.

“…I envy Aria. I would so love to meet Nyengäa’s family. I don’t understand why Father refuses to foster me. It wouldn’t be so bad, but I heard you and him making plans for even Byetsani to be fostered!” Her eyes stung, and she curled up on her stone seat in an attempt to hide her tears. “What is wrong with me that he passed me over?”

* * *

Barbri Räswyela sighed as she looked at the distraught ball that her lord’s eldest daughter had become. It was perhaps a blessing that the girl’s true mother had not found her. For all of Catelyn Tully’s many faults, lack of love was not one of them. However, that by no means made up for her flaws, many of which might have caused further problems in this situation.

Barbri waited, keeping an ear out for the distant, but eternal bustle of an active keep. Finally, Tsonse raised her head, eyes red. She crept quietly out from her nook to rest her head on Barbri’s shoulder and take Byetsani into her arms.

As the little lady of Žumyeltsa started cooing at her half-sister, Barbri found herself—almost to her surprise—relaxing. It hadn’t been obvious to her until now that she had worried Tsonse was pulling away for a reason other than the ones the girl had just brought up. She shook her head slightly as she watched her daughter and her charge with a fond gaze. If Yejyer would only communicate better, this situation would not have occurred.

She had told him, as had Ujän Liara—more than once—even if Catelyn did not warrant the truth, her children did. Especially with the gifts both Tsonse and little Bron were beginning to exhibit. As for Aria and Rob, the two were the image of their aunt and eldest uncle, respectively. All four of the elder Ŝarq children were northron enough for honesty and clarity. Even their cousin Jon was, and he was half-Torñish. While Aria and Bron may as yet be too young for understanding, Rob and Tsonse were more than old enough.

Barbri pinched her nose, her expression souring again. Not that most would have been able to tell.

She had not even needed to say a word, for Tsonse had turned with a questioning look in her Others’ eyes.

“There is something I must know?” Tsonse asked in a voice too wise for her years, playing with Byetsani seemingly having brought back the calm attitude she usually attempted to favor.

“We will discuss it in my solar, dear one.”

* * *

Tsonse carefully stitched at her name-day gift for Byetsani while she thought over Ujän Barbri’s words. She stuck a needle in a scrap of fabric as she came to a conclusion.

“_Maere_ has not been told, has she?” Her governess shook her head.

“My lord has not yet come to a conclusion on her fate, but he is much frustrated with her antics. Their marriage was made for alliance purposes, _not_ conversion. Let alone trying to fill the heads of all the women with southron ideals.”

Tsonse winced, but couldn’t dispute the accuracy of that statement, nor that she found some southron customs alluring. Nonetheless she found much warmer in her heart the knowledge that she was meant to be Rob’s advisor, and marry into one of the northron houses. The only southron kingdom she found truly interesting and worth visiting was Torñe, and no doubt someday she would have the opportunity to act as Rob’s emissary and do so.

She smiled up at Ujän Barbri, her anger and envy soothed away even further as her governess added,

“It is advantageous for you to be familiar with our land. I will discuss with my lord the concept of your visiting more of the keeps and Houses.”

“Thank you, Myema.”

“Do not thank me, tsasyen ŝyesasuvan. I am only fixing what my lord neglected. Now, go along to your byemuŝga, and take Byetsani with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rus Räswyel, Varin Ivyerumodyev, and Žomyeric Bulson = Roose Ryswell, Daryn Hornwood, and Domeric Bolton (all canon characters)  
Barbri Räswyela = Barbrey (Ryswell) Dustin  
Lord Bronyeän = Brandon Stark  
Jon Tsasyen = Jon Snow  
Jonyel Syerwinsga, Alis Garŝarqa, and the two Ombyer daughters = Jonelle Cerwin, Alys Karstark, and the two Umber daughters  
Artur Deñe =Arthur Dayne  
Aszara Deñe = Ashara Dayne  
Elios Karghalen Martel = technically canon character; father of Oberin (Oberyn), Elia, and Toran (Doran)  
Keliria = Rhaenys  
Rymorlje = Aegon  
Zulbyera: pronounced "zoolbearah"  
Byenjen: pronounced "benjane"  
Tsasyen: pronounced "chahsehn"  
Byetsani: pronounced "behchanee" 
> 
> Aszara: pronounced "adze-ara"  
Deñe: pronounced "daynyey"  
Karghalen: pronounced "karhralen" 
> 
> Translations:  
Aeksodarion = master of the dominion (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ariña = general title for a noble woman or girl (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Byemuŝga = grandma, grandmother (The Northern Tongue)  
Tsasyen ŝyesasuvan = one who gracefully walks the snow (The Northern Tongue)  
Darilendarion = heir of the dominion (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Eksio = general title for a noble man or boy (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Eksionen = plural of eksio (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Hasañi = respected male authority figure (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ghiovala = spear fighter (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Lepeka = brother of one's father (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Maere = mother (Reach dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Myema = mom, mama (The Northern Tongue)  
Mơña = mother (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
Teghünmariz = land owner (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Torñe = kingdom, dominion (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ujän = lady (The Northern Tongue)


	4. Written Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skips in the form of letters, announcements, and diary entries

_A letter dated the ninth month of 294 AC _

Dear Jon,

My sincere a pologies for neglecting so long a response to yor last letter. I had many a thing to think over, as it arose many thoughts within me that I did not as such appreciate. As much as I disdain to admit it, I found myself envious of yors and Aria’s fosterings.

Myema’s words, both to myself and Father dispeld such concerns, at least a little. I will now spend time traveling to learn the lands, so I may best be Rob’s adviser.

I a ppreciated yor tellings of Torñish fashion and yor descriptions of the ladies of the court. But I wood prefer yor honest perceptions if you are to continue writing to me. If you must tell me of ladies, I want to know of _Princesse_ Arianñe, _Cosine_ Keliria, _Prince_ Oberin’s Sand Snakes, or Nyengäa Elia. But I wish to know of the men of the court as well—do not leave them out, though I understand if you wish to shelter me from the more boisterus tales.

Just please, do not tailor yor letters to what you believe I will like. I am not my mother; you not need be nearly so careful.

On lighter subjects:

Though I am sure Nyengäa Aszara has already informed you, Zulbyera and Bron are fast companions, and he has even dragged her off with the Riž when they visit. I sapose it is only to be expected, considering their being born on the same day.

Byetsani said her first word the other day, much to Avestsa and Myema’s delight. Žengos Žomyeric is quite struck by her as well. I quite fail to understand where he gets his sweetness from, with neither side being known for their kindly natures, much as I love Myema.

Still, he may mak a good husband some day, and I have no doubt I have enough ice to mak up for his warmth.

Avestsa, Nyengäa Aszara, Byemuŝga, Aria, Zulbyera, and Remorlje send their love.

Inform Tsusga Byenjen, Keliria, _Chevalier_ Artur, Obara, and Nemeria that I miss them.

Love,

Yor cousin, _Dame_ Tsonse Ŝarqa, fourth daughter of the Winter-Built Hall

* * *

_A note dated within the range of the last month of 294 AC and the first of 295 AC _

Sister.

I am no idiot, and I would appreciate your not framing me as such. Toran does it enough already. I am forming useful connections for a second, more or less landless son, and I do know how to take care of myself. I will return home within a decade, I promise.

I have already sent name-day gifts for all the relevant children, including my own. They should arrive at least a week ahead of Ariañne's name-day.

Shall I meet you in the North or South when next we see each other?

[Do send your response through Areo’s network—it will best reach me that way]

Please, anywhere but _Rei’s Hið_,

Your baby brother.

* * *

_An announcement from 7 Fivesmoon 295 AC, sent to all the Great Houses of Westeros _

**SEIGNUR Yejyer Ŝarq OF The Winter-Built Hall WITH HIS WIFE DAME Catelyn ANNOUNCE THE HEALTHIE BIRTH OF THEIR FIFTH CHILD AND THIRD SON SEIGNUR Rigon Ŝarq. THE GODSPARENTS OF THE CHILD ARE SEIGNUR JELMĀZMAMŌRIS, Renly Baratheon, AND PRINCESSE Selyse Florent Baratheon OF ZALDRĪZESDŌRON**

**SEIGNUR Rigon’s FIRST NAME DAY WILL BE FETED ON THE FIFTH DAYE OF FIVESMOON, A YEAR FROM THAT DAYE. ALL THE GREAT HOUSES AND THEIR BANNERMEN ARE INVITED TO ATTEND OR SEND EMISSARIES**

* * *

_Two entries from Lord Eddard Stark’s personal journal_

**24 Sixesmoon 296 AC **

**Our investments with Torñe and their people have resulted in manifold rewards, a boon for the preparations laid forth for the next Winter. **

**Rigon has reached a year in good health, a promising sign, and Byetsani will reach three in the next six moons. She is already toddling around with practically non-stop speech. Thankfully, most are patient with her. I should send Tsonse a letter with her progress.**

** I worry for Catelyn. I have no fear of her harming our children, but still she has alienated my people, and the two of us have never had the understanding she seemed to have with Bronyeän, or even her Petyr. Perhaps it is well that Gujan has long been named heir to the Barrows and gifted the name of Dostyen. **

**I feel much guilt for denying her the comfort of her gods, but I have enough to prove, both with being the second-born son, and Avestsa’s Southron ambitions. It is impossible to bend to her whims without seeming weak. **

**I do not know what I would have done without Myemaq and Barbri to rely on. **

**I thank the gods without name each day that she found it in her heart to forgive my wrongs to her. **

_ **My wolf,** _

_ ** I have already written to our snow’s grace. ** _

_ **And I have told you before, as has ** **Ujän** ** Liara, though we bear her no ill will, Catelyn is ill-suited to our land. She has borne more than enough heirs—send her to her home, where she will be happy, and the true lady of the keep. She will forgive you soon enough, particularly if you let the children visit her. ** _

_ **I forgave you long ago. I wish of you that you cease your dwelling on it.** _

* * *

_Letter dated in Eleventhsmoon 297_

_Maere_ and Avestsa,

Many thanks for your gift of my Ujän. Already, her training is bearing out her nature, as she is the sweetest and most obedient pet I have ever had the pleasure to lay eyes upon. Only the slyness and gruffness of necessity mar her peace.

I have much enjoyed my fostering with the Manžyerlis, and I believe I have learned much from both Žengos Wämyen and Ujän Liuna. Considering the subject of my raising and approaching adulthood, I would request certain qualifications of my future husband:

-First, that he be a first son and heir to a keep of his own, if not already holding his seat.

-Second, that he be a man who will treat me with honor and respect.

-Third, preferably being Northron, or a soul that allows women their own defenses.

-And Fourth, that he allows me to bring with me mine own ladies.

I have no doubt that you will choose well for me, but I submit these conditions in the hope that you will consider them.

On that note, my dearest parents, I wish to know why you have requested me home in the next moon. I have heard any number of whispers in the markets of Gavbon Tsabyelga in regard to the news.

Is it true that the Stag and his wife are journeying to our hall? Have you yet informed my royal aunt and her children if that is the case?

My love and blessings to you both until we meet in Firstmoon,

Your eldest daughter, Tsonse.

-Father, Bron needs must go on his fostering if he has not already. I know mother will weep, but I sense that it is necessary

-Give my love to all the littles, and Nyengäa Aszara, as well as Tsusga when he returns from his journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gavbon Tsabyelga = White Harbor  
Žengos Wämyen and Ujän Liuna = Lord Wyman and Lady Leona Manderlu (canon characters)
> 
> Gujan Dostyen = Barbri's eldest son, and heir to Barrowtown. He is probably Yejyer's, but no one is entirely sure, as he looks almost completely like a Ryswell (OC)  
Riž = The Reeds  
Žomyeric Bulson = Domeric Bolton, Roose Bolton's only legitimate (and in this AU, only living) son 
> 
> Translations  
Avestsa = father (The Northern Tongue)  
Byemuŝga = grandmother (The Northern Tongue)  
Chevalier = knight (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Cosine = cousin; feminine (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Tsusga = uncle (The Northern Tongue)  
Dame = lady (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Jelmāzmamōris = The Stormlands (Valyrian loanword)  
Maere = mother (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Myema = mom, mama (The Northern Tongue)  
Myemaq = mother (The Northern Tongue)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
Princesse = princess (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Rei’s Hið = King's Landing (mix of Reach Dialect and West Andaii)  
Seignur = lord (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Torñe = kingdom (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Zaldrīzesdōron = Dragonstone (Valyrian loanword)  
Žengos = lord (The Northern Tongue)


	5. The Court Goes North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robert ventures North, and way too many people don't realize how monumentally stupid that is (part one)

_298 AC—The North // Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej _

Cersei Lannister drew her furs closer around her, glaring out at her snow-covered surroundings. The only upsides of this trip so far had been so much time with her children, chances to be alone with Jaime, and not being forced to ride in the cold.

“_Mame_, would you tell us a story?” Distracted from her irritation, Cersei turned to smile at Tommen. Her sweet, chubby six-year-old smiled back at her.

“Of course, sweetling. What would you like to hear?”

“A story from when you were small, _Mame_.”

“With _Oncle_ Jaime!” Myrcella chimed in. Cersei’s smile widened, suddenly feeling lighter.

“Very well. Hm…let me think…Ah. As I have told you before, your uncle and I were often mistaken for being identical. Once, I was envious of his sword lessons, and so I convinced him to change places with me for a day…”

* * *

Jaime Lannister shot a brief, longing look over to the wheelhouse as Cersei’s melodic voice floated through its windows before returning his attention to his nephew-son and his brother. Just in time to break up an argument.

“…and that is why you should never act on impulse, dear _nevou_,” Tyrion was saying with a sharp tone.

“How dare you insult _Perre_ like that, Imp! He is the king, and he can do whatever he wishes,” Joffrey said, a pout on his angular face. Before the crown prince could erupt into the full-blown tantrum he was threatening—though really, at eleven he should know better—Jaime claimed his nephew-son’s attention.

“_Mun prinze_, you are both correct. A _Rei_ has no higher authority to answer to but for the gods. But he is also the template for his people to base themselves on. He sets the tone for the behavior of the realm.” For once, though he continued to scowl, something seemed to have gotten through the spoiled boy, a solemn cast shadowing his features. Of course, Robert had to ruin it.

Almost as one, the three Lannister men turned in the _Rei_’s direction as boisterous chuckle came from his lips. Jaime shook his head in disgust, a sneer twisting his lips as he watched the aging Baratheon quaff a ridiculous amount of ale, and fumble at one of the daughters of the minor lords. How could Robert behave like this when he had the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros in his bed? Cersei deserved so much better than this fool. Jaime wondered, not for the first time, why he had not convinced his father, or even _Seignur_ Stark, to take the damn throne.

He looked away from the spectacle that Robert Baratheon presented, and tried to distract himself by bickering good-naturedly with Tyrion and asking Joffrey to inform him of his progress with the sword.

* * *

Myrcella Baratheon listened to her mother’s story with half an ear as she thought. Something was wrong. Not because they were headed North—no, she had heard far too many stories from Perre and Seignur Arryn to be concerned about why they were headed to the hall of his foster-brother.

Her concern was far more deep than that. First, there was the manner in which the Northerners who had already hosted them had behaved. They were never anything less than precisely polite and gracious to the Rei and Royal Family, but Myrcella had grown up in the middle of Rei’s Hið and its court. She knew disguised hatred when she saw it, and there was so much of that in the eyes of their hosts. Particularly when their gazes landed on Maere, Oncle Jaime, Perre, or any Lannister men. Oddly, Oncle Tyrion was excluded.

The second strange thing was how many Dornish were in the North. More than half of the Houses hosting them had at least one member of Dornish descent, and in more than ten cases, that member was a spouse or paramour of the Seignur or Dame. Myrcella understood why the Dornish looked at the Royal Family with hate: she knew what Father had done or ordered done to the Dornish members of the Reisguard, Chevalier Dayne being the only one to escape his fury. She knew that Grandfather Tywin had ordered Chevalier Gregor to do terrible things—things no one had never whispered the specifics of in her hearing—and that Maere had smiled when she heard of Grandfather’s orders. She worried about what it meant that there were so many Dornish in the North.

She chewed the inside of her cheek contemplatively, smiling reflexively at Maere revealing how speechless Grandfather had been at hers and Oncle Jaime’s deception. She knew Maere and Oncle Jaime were worried too. She had barely seen a smile on Maere’s face since before the start of this year, and she had heard Maere and Perre fighting about Dame Lyanna Stark.

Oncle Jaime, on the other hand, was clearly attempting to become invisible to everyone unless he could redirect Maere’s, Joffrey’s, or Perre’s temper. The joking, doting uncle she was used to was nowhere to be seen.

Myrcella was already wishing that they had never come North. Everything felt wrong.

* * *

_298 AC—Winterfell, The North // Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein, Žumyeltsa Yetsbyegoi Tsasyenej _

Elia froze, barely seeming to breathe, and Yejyer Ŝarq abruptly regretted having informed her of the impending visit by Robert in this manner. Several seats to his left he could feel the combined glares of his eldest daughter, Ganjuä Tristen, and Remorlje. For that reason, he did not protest as the three children rose from their seats and guided her out of the Great Hall. Catelyn attempted to reprimand them but was hushed by his mother and then distracted by Rigon’s fussing and Rob’s frustrated questions.

“That was an idea extremely lacking in common sense, my lord,” Barbri said from her place on his right. He winced.

“I am aware,” he muttered gruffly.

“I would suggest making some sort of appeasing announcement to the Hall,” she added. Yejyer shot her a side-eyed glare, irritated.

“I was intending to, if you would remove the children?” She nodded, squeezing his knee gently under the long table before standing, baby Lilian on her hip. A silence slowly traveled across the previously chattering Hall. Barbri, much to her credit, commanded nearly as much respect as his mother, and equally as much as himself.

“My lord has every intention of appeasing our worries. But it is far past time for any children to be in their beds, so I would request that they follow me.” She waited past the chuckle that her words evoked, and slowly, every child below ten years of age—including the servants and common folk—formed a small crowd around her. Yejyer leaned over to Catelyn to whisper in her ear, and with ill-hidden dismay, she also stood to aid Barbri.

Once the last child had disappeared through the great doors of the Hall, and the servants had aided in the rearrangement of the room, Yejyer began to speak. Throughout most of the night, he explained to his people the plans he had and the behavior he expected for the_ Rei_’s visit.

When he finally found his way to his bed, outside, false dawn was beginning to grey the skies.

He patted the questioning snout of his recently found direwolf, Sästsara, before collapsing on the wide, soft bed. His last conscious action was to rest his hand on Barbri’s hip.

* * *

Tyrion Lannister was intrigued by his first glance of the Ŝarqs. He had been a child when Robert’s rebellion occurred, _Seignur_ Ŝarq the age he was now. He had no memory of any of the Ŝarqs, save _Dame_ Lyanna and _Seignur_ Brandon. The first thing he noticed was how cold they all seemed, how icy their demeanors, such a contrast to the passion and fire he remembered about Lyanna and Brandon.

It was interesting, he thought, that instead of standing beside her husband, _Dame_ Catelyn was flanked by her eldest son and daughter, while _Seignur_ Eddard was flanked by a woman who was clearly his mother, and an unfamiliar lady who he surmised must be the infamous _Dame_ Barbrey Dostyen. It appeared that the tales of the North’s paramours were true, even up to the _Seignur_ Paramount.

Tyrion found his gaze returning to the eldest Ŝarq daughter. She must be only twelve at the most, but she had the same cool mask as the rest of the keep, the only exceptions being those under five. She held a small girl with the look of _Dame_ Dosten but the hair of _Seignur_ Ŝarq on her hip and turned to speak quietly with a fair-haired young man behind her.

He blinked in surprise. Not only was her coloring stunning and unusual, so too was her dress. Tyrion was no huge follower of women’s fashion, but he was a devoted uncle, and a fairly observant man. He had thought the little lady to be wearing a dress, and he supposed it was, though the skirts were far shorter than popular in the South, reaching just past her knees and showing thick trousers where they slit. Even that, however, was not what he found most surprising about her appearance. Never before had Tyrion seen the old runes of the First Men embroidered on clothing—though as he observed the other Northern women, he saw she was not alone in that unusual choice—and certainly he had never seen the Wall or weirwoods chosen for detailing. He realized he was staring, and quickly shifted his gaze away before she faced forward again. Tyrion did not wish to know what would happen if the Lannister Imp was caught staring at the eldest daughter of the _Rei_’s foster-brother. He had no hope it would end happily.

Instead, he watched the _Rei_ greet his lordly host.

“Ned! My brother, you look hale!” Robert boomed with a giant grin on his bearded face as he dismounted from his horse in an unwieldy fashion. Tyrion noted with interest that _Seignur_ Ŝarq did not return the other man’s smile, bowing stiffly with a blank expression masking his face. He could have sworn, however, that there was a rather burning look sparking quickly through the _Seignur_ of Winterfell’s eyes as his gaze traveled across the royal party, though Tyrion failed to tell who it was aimed at.

“Welcome to Winterfell, your Grace. May you be happy guests here,” said _Seignur_ Ŝarq quietly, his face still a cool mask. Tyrion shifted uneasily on his horse, the tension practically visceral in the air. It was patently obvious that the North did not want them. None of the court seemed to notice. Especially not Robert, who was still grinning, as he manhandled the other man up from his bow.

“No need to stand on ceremony with me Ned. We’re brothers forever!” _Seignur_ Ŝarq’s smile failed to reach his eyes, and he stood so stiffly that it was as if he had ice in his veins instead of blood.

“Many years has it been, no?” Tyrion didn’t think the thickening of the _Seignur_ Paramount’s accent was a good sign, and neither did the household, if the glances in the direction of the two men were any indication.

“Aye, and you don’t seem to have aged any of them, you lucky dog,” Robert said, still grinning. Tyrion was fairly certain he wasn’t the only one who caught _Seignur_ Ŝarq’s wince.

He found himself close to emulating it as he recognized the Dornishwoman behind _Dame_ Dostyen and _Dame_ Sansa. _Robert, you utterly oblivious horseshit_, he thought with considerable venom. Why had no one told them that Elia Martel was visiting Winterfell? Were their spies in the North that incompetent? Tyrion had trouble believing that; Varys had never been one to countenance inept work or a lacking network of his “little birds.”

There had to be another reason behind this, and he wasn’t sure he liked the look of it.

To make things worse, Robert compounded his offense by asking to be led to Lyanna’s tomb in the crypts, and promptly insulted the Northern way of burying their dead. Tyrion was at this point desperately hoping for an opportunity to drink himself senseless. How could the man still be this thick after all these years? Then again, he clearly still couldn’t see that his wife was cuckolding him directly before his eyes, so Tyrion supposed it should be no great surprise he failed to notice the growing fury in _Princesse_ Elia and _Seignur_ Eddard’s eyes.

He held his breath as Robert finished blustering. A practically biting silence fell over the courtyard of Winterfell, the rest of the court finally noticing what Tyrion, Myrcella, and surprisingly, even Cersei, had realized long ago.

Robert finally sobered, looking about with a bewildered expression, as if struggling to understand what he’d done wrong. Tyrion could almost hear Jon Arryn sighing with exasperation, causing him to jump when he heard a similar sound to his right, before realizing it was Myrcella, perched side-saddle on a small mare of her own. He shared a worried look with his niece, both of them frowning as Elia Martel stepped up, _Dames_ Dostyen and Sansa parting before her. He wondered absently why people called her frail or meek—she exuded a sense of command, poise, and controlled fury, that Tyrion had learned from those with it he had met before, was something to be rather terrified by.

Even _Seignur_ Eddard ceded his ground to her as she came to a stop before Robert, who was now pale under his ruddy tan.

“By what right do you demand to disturb her resting place?” She asked coldly, not even deigning to use a title. The King spluttered.

“I am the _Rei_! I need no reason!” Tyrion shivered, knowing that was the exactly wrong thing to say. Elia Martel’s smile held no amusement. It was a cruel thing, full of unwrought vengeance and grief. He made up his mind to never, ever, be alone with her, or any other Dornish.

“You are no true king…Baratheon. And your betrothal agreement was never written, nor agreed to by either _Ariña_ Lyarra or Lyanna.” She paused, but Robert seemed to have been struck temporarily speechless—a rare occurrence for the blustering man, so she continued with aplomb. “You may be welcome in my brother’s home, but there are lines even you should dare not cross, demands that are ill-considered in their making.” Much to Tyrion’s considerable relief, before Robert’s famous temper could explode after that statement, _Dame_ Catelyn finally stepped up, curtsying deeply.

“Your Grace, it is an honor to have you and _Reine_ Cersei bless our home with your presence.” Robert harrumphed, but seemed at least partially appeased.

Tyrion did not, however, miss the way _Seignur_ Ŝarq, _Dame_ Dostyen, and _Dame_ Ŝarq looked at her. Clearly, _Dame_ Catelyn’s intervening had not been planned. _Princesse_ Elia faded back into the line-up in a manner that even Varys would be jealous of as _Dame_ Catelyn continued, motioning forward a pair of young servants to offer the royal family and their court bread and salt.

And so, a disaster was avoided. But Tyrion was not naïve enough to believe that was the end of it. Only the rights of guest-hood protected them, and he knew well enough that was a thin barrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yejyer = Eddard Stark  
Tristen = Prince Trystane Martell 
> 
> Ganjuä: pronounced "gone-ju-ai"; Northern word for prince  
Sästsara: pronounced “Sais-chara”; means “Dawn”  
Lilian: pronounced “Lee-lee-ahn”; OC Snow daughter of Barbri & Yejyer, born on the first month of 298
> 
> The reason Tyrion is not quite so hated is because as we all know, the Dornish "don't hurt children," and if you go by the ASOIAF wiki, he was literally a child when Robert's rebellion occurred (he was born in 273). He's still a Lannister, but everyone knows he's not the main one to blame, so they hate him less.   
Look, Elia is a Martell. And there has to be a reason why Oberyn adored her, beside her being his sister (yeah, we can argue that he put her on a pedestal after she died), at least in my opinion. She may not be as talented with weapons, but she can definitely cut people with her words. Plus, the Dornish have a reputation for fiery tempers and little patience for assholes (which Robert definitely is).  
Since I'm going with a Smart! Sansa, I see no reason why Myrcella can't be smart too--we don't have many of those kind of fics.
> 
> Translations:   
Ariña = general title for a noble woman or girl (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Chevalier = knight (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Dame = lady (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Ganjuä = heir to the foremost leader (The Northern Tongue)  
Maere = mother (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Mame = mom (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Mun prinze = my prince (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Nevou = nephew (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Oncle = uncle (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Perre = father (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Princesse = princess (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Rei = king (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Reine = queen (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Rei’s Hið =King's Landing (a portmanteau of Reach Dialect and West Andaii)  
Seignur = lord (Reach Dialect that has made its way into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)


	6. Big Ears And Ultimatums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Myrcella and Tyrion hear things they weren't supposed to, Catelyn breaks the last straw, and the Starks make plans. Also, Robert is an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer one, so I hope it makes up for the wait.

_The Tombs of the Winter Kings, Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein _

It was deeply, unnaturally cold in the tombs that lay beneath the Hall of the Starks, despite the closeness of the crypts to the hot springs. Still, this chill failed to bother or deter Elia Martell, much to the consternation of her guard and nephew.

But they left her to her grieving conversation, somewhat reassured by Tsonse’s determination to stay by her aunt, though both Artur and Tristen had their misgivings.

* * *

Tsonse settled a fur cloak around her aunt’s shoulders, unable to keep a frown from crossing her face. She understood why tonight, of all nights, Nyengäa Elia was spending the night in the crypts. But it concerned her that her aunt had not even begun to shiver, despite the hours they had spent here. She did not even seem to notice Tsonse’s presence, which was profoundly unlike her.

All of Elia’s attention was focused on the statue of Liana Ŝarqa before her tomb, as she spoke to the long-dead love of her life. Tsonse, who was never cold, even when wearing the thinnest of summer dresses, abruptly shivered. Her direwolf, Ujän, whined in response to her unease, and Tsonse tucked her face into the scruff of the growing pup’s neck.

There was something different about this night, though Tsonse had for years been the one who accompanied Elia to the tombs, and the young Ŝarq wasn’t at all sure it was all because of the Usurper’s presence. She was, however, more than willing to believe it was the catalyst.

She curled ever more tightly around her direwolf, trying to block out her aunt’s speech and ignore the unusual oppressiveness of the dark crypt. She had never before been afraid of the resting place of every Ŝarq since Bron the Gubanisv, but evidently tonight was a night for firsts.

* * *

Of all the places Tyrion ever expected to find himself, especially by accident, the crypts of Winterfell were not one of them. Neither would he have foreseen happening across the Princesse of Dorne having a conversation with a statue, and Sansa Ŝarq curled in a ball around her direwolf pup.

All he had meant to do was find the baths. Winterfell was known for their hot spring baths (among, of course, other things). He had no plan or really inclination to end up spying on people who most certainly did not want him there. Not to mention, he was feeling awfully like a voyeur, which was _not_ a sensation Tyrion enjoyed. But on the other hand, he was completely and utterly lost. He had no idea how he’d gotten to this part of the subterranean under-castle, and even less of one when it came to getting out. So he was more or less trapped among a bunch of dead Northrons, with only three unwitting companions.

He held back a sigh, relieved that he had not removed most of his clothes before attempting to find the baths and attempted to find a comfortable place on the ground as he listened to Elia Martel speak. It wasn’t as if he had much of any other choice

* * *

Elia knew she was likely worrying Tsonse and the boys, but she had had to speak to Liana tonight. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyways if she had not. At least this way, her thoughts weren’t trapped inside her head, ricocheting around until she exploded in some emotional way or another. _Curse that walnut-brained Baratheon bastard_, she thought viciously, not for the first time.

If it had not been for his hurt pride, Rhaegar would have still been alive. More importantly, _Liana_ would still be alive.

Sometimes, Elia thought that the only reason she stayed in this world was the children. When it hit hard enough, she couldn’t see past the ache and anger in her heart why it was worth still breathing when her sun was no longer in the world.

Sometimes, it was only knowing that she would break her family, her children, if she left them, that kept her from taking just a little too much sweetsleep on a nightmare-filled night.

“Oh Lia. Today would be his birthday, if you had both lived.” She wiped at her eyes with the fur of a cloak she didn’t remember donning. “We never even got to name him. He hadn’t even started kicking.” She clenched her jaw, ignoring the white-hot pain the action shot through her face. “Mother of the Sea, I miss you. There’s no reason you should have died. None. We should be raising our children, being each other’s paramours. You should be practicing swords with Byenjen while Aszara and I watch.” This time she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “Instead, here I am having to welcome the man whose orders killed you, the man who turned a blind eye to Tywin Lannister’s atrocities, into your childhood home! He tried to visit you Lia. Tried to force his way into your place of peace when you never even truly betrothed. This monster is sleeping in Yejyer’s bed with the even bigger monster he calls his wife, and I have to stomach it. We all do.” She rubbed her eyes, suddenly feeling tired. “I know he has his plans, but all I can see is an invasion, a betrayal of our principles, of _you_.”

Elia straightened, preparing to light a candle, and finally feeling the exhaustion and aches that standing in one place, especially at her age, could lead to, when she heard an odd scuffle. Naturally, she turned to Tsonse, her heart twinging in guilt as she saw her sleeping niece. She shouldn’t have let the young girl drag herself out here, especially for so long. She frowned, distracted from her mess of emotions as she realized the noise couldn’t have been Tsonse.

She turned in the direction the sound came from, eyes narrowed.

“I know you are there. Come out, whoever you are, and I might not have you punished.” She heard some more scuffing and some muffled curses, before Tyrion Lannister stepped out from the shadows. She stared at him for a few long moments, the only sounds the whistling wind and Ujän’s snuffles. He was the last person she’d expect to be hiding in the crypts. His spying was not nearly so surprising, but the location was.

He fidgeted under her unrelenting gaze, but—wonder of wonders—didn’t say a word. She thought, shortly praying to the Mother of Deserts for patience and cunning. Finally, she sat down at Liana’s feet, and motioned for him to do the same across from her. With a strange look on his face, he did.

“Eksio Tyrion. I cannot say it is a pleasure to once again make your acquaintance. But you’ve grown, though I cannot say your mother would be pleased with your choices.” He glared at her, his mouth twitching into a strange combination of a grimace and a smile, but his voice was polite, if sharp, as he said,

“_Princesse_ Elia. I would say the same. What do you want from me?” Elia found herself smiling. She had heard that Tyrion had inherited his parents’ intelligence and cunning but had not had the chance of yet to test it much herself.

“Clever man. One of them is knowledge: how you came here and how much you heard. The other is for you to teach and guide my niece in _Rei_’s _Hið_.” The young lord flushed.

“I am embarrassed to say I became hopelessly lost while attempting to find the hot springs.” Elia couldn’t help a soft snicker, accidentally waking Tsonse. The little lady of the Winter-Built Hall straightened up, yawning slightly, and dusting off her skirts. She turned her head, and Elia saw her eyes widen as she caught sight of Tyrion.

“Aunt, what is the Little Lion doing in the Hall of the Winter Reis?” Tyrion flushed deeper, and Elia knew her mouth was twitching as she said,

“He got lost, sweet one.” Tsonse’s lips twitched as well, but her voice was kind as she said to the youngest Lion of Casterly Rock,

“_Mun seignur_, next time ask a Ŝarq to guide you. This Hall was built for us, and it does not like others.” Tyrion’s flush began to fade, and it didn’t escape either woman that he appeared thoughtful.

* * *

Tyrion considered his next words carefully as the _Princesse_ of Dorne and the eldest daughter of Winterfell stared at him with little hint of their own thoughts revealed on their faces. He didn’t consider himself superstitious by any means, and he wasn’t even sure he truly believed in the Seven. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from feeling there was something else going on, some other presence besides the women and wolf before him. He sighed, rubbing his hands together in the cold, shooting a disbelieving look at Sansa Ŝarq, who wasn’t even wearing a cloak, let alone gloves.

“_Princesse_ Elia, I realize my future is in your hands. But I have to ask—why do you believe that _Dame_ Sansa will go to the capital?” He didn’t understand the tiny face the little lady made when he said her name. But he was quickly distracted by their next words.

“Do you really believe the Usurper will let my shaming of him go? He had a plan to begin with, you know that,” _Princesse_ Elia said, giving him a wry look. He shrugged uncomfortably.

“You’re far from wrong, _Princesse_. But what does that have to do with me?” _Dame_ Sansa sighed, looking older than her years.

“Your family controls the capital, and I would prefer to have one of you not actively working against me. I have enough misgivings about King’s Landing already.” Tyrion blinked at her.

“…Are you sure you’re only twelve?” To his surprise, she chuckled, sharing a glance with _Princesse_ Elia before she said,

“Quite. But I have been raised by a _Princesse_ of Dorne and as the eldest daughter of the _Seignur_ Paramount. I am the spare if something happens to Rob.” Tyrion sighed, leaning gingerly against the pedestal behind him.

“Fuck. My apologies to both you ladies. But I saw the way in which Joffrey looked at you, _Dame_ Sansa, and I am sure both of you are aware Robert has always wanted to tie himself to the Ŝarqs.” Both of them grimaced, and he gave them a tired smile.

“Yes, I will, _Dame_ Sansa. Though I suggest you find other allies as well. The Lannister Imp is not always the most popular man at court, even if he is the _Rei’_s brother-in-law.” She looked worryingly unconcerned, _Princesse_ Elia saying,

“She will have many others to protect her, _Seignur_ Tyrion. I just wish for her a clever friend knowing the current politics.”

Tyrion blinked again. _Oh…everything just made much more sense._ He ignored the fact that he had just learned Elia of Dorne had been in love with Lyanna Ŝarq. Although, that did explain a great deal about the North and Dorne. He wondered if Varys knew.

* * *

_The Lord’s Chambers, Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein _

Yejyer stared at the tapestry across from his bed—a marker of one of the few times all of the adult noblewomen in his household had worked together—and attempted to restrain his temper. Oh, he’d known Robert had a plan in coming here, and true, he had known about Žengos Arrain’s death, but he had not pictured Robert uprooting practically his whole court here. A decree, a letter in the name of old friendship, even a royal emissary would have been more expected. Even Robert, his family, and his guards would have made more sense.

But now, now he understood, and he cursed his former foster-brother for demonstrating, just the once, an inkling of political acumen. Though, clearly, merely an inkling, he thought with a dark spurt of humor. If his old friend had more than that, he wouldn’t have brought the entire court; just the gossips. As he heard the other man shift impatiently on his feet, he turned back around, finally having gained enough equilibrium to return even a marginally friendly expression to Robert’s expectant look.

“Why me, Robert? I am no politician, nor am I a spy. _Seignur_ Lannister, _Dame_ Olenna, a Stormland _seignur_, or even Stannis would be a better choice.” Robert’s eyes flashed at the mention of his brother, much as Yejyer had expected, but surprisingly, he kept his temper.

“Perhaps, Ned. But I want you. Because of the reasons you just said. I want someone I can _trust_ in that mewling cesspit of a city.” Yejyer stared at him blankly, filled with disbelief. Robert shifted awkwardly under his intense gaze but didn’t seem at all deterred. Only uncomfortable with the silence. Finally, Yejyer said,

“Ŝarqs do not belong in the South, Robert. And you know exactly why.” The Southron king’s face reddened.

“I told you Ned, I had no idea that was going to happen. I don’t kill women. Or innocents. You know that!” He spluttered. Once, in another time, Yejyer might have believed him. If he didn’t have Barbri and his mother by his side.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “I won’t risk the security of my lands. I think you would prefer stable lands than a best friend in the chambers beside you. Ask. Someone. Else.” Robert’s face darkened, and Yejyer repressed a sigh. He had hoped—and even half-believed—that Robert wouldn’t deny his oldest friend’s refusal, but no. Barbri and Elia had been right.

“You will _not_ deny this honor from your king, Ned. You are coming to _Rei_’s _Hið_ to be my Hand. And you will bring your daughter to be betrothed to my son.” Yejyer almost stopped breathing for a moment.

“I will do what?” He asked hoarsely. Robert’s face had a bull-stubborn cast as he said,

“You heard me, Ned. Your Sansa will marry my Joffrey. If you think of refusing either honor, I will have _Princesse_ Elia thrown in the Black Cells, and her entire household executed. Including your Steward.” Yejyer stared at him in horror. He had never trusted most southrons, but Robert had grown with him in the Eyrie, which could be at times more Northron than Westerosi. Even with all that had happened, it took that moment, that threat for the last of Yejyer Ŝarq’s faith in his foster brother to freeze to nothing. He bowed his head, kneeling.

“Very well, your Grace. I will do as you decree. I am nothing but your loyal subject.” He looked up to see Robert’s now discomfited face. He felt a distant, bitter satisfaction. If Robert was going to upend his life, he deserved to feel badly about it. The King muttered for him to get up, which Yejyer did fluidly. “I will leave you to your rest, your Grace. Sleep soundly.” He didn’t wait for the king’s reply to almost slam the door behind him. He had plans to make.

* * *

_Guest Chambers of the keep, Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein _

Myrcella was sleepless tonight, perhaps because of the tension throughout Winterfell that had never abated, even after they were given guest right. She had intended to visit with Uncle Tyrion, but his chambers were empty. She knew better than to go looking for him; she may love her uncle, but he did have a weakness for women and wine.

So instead, she went looking for Oncle Jaime, as she knew his chambers were close by the rest of the royal household. Unfortunately, she realized, as she approached his door, he was clearly occupied. She wrinkled her nose in disappointment and faint discussed. She had thought—until now—that her uncle was one of the few Reisguard who held to the decree of celibacy, like Chevalier Barristan. Still, she lingered. Perhaps he would finish soon, and she could tease him about it.

Myrcella leaned against the stone beside the closed door, ignoring the voice in her head that sounded a lot like her septa telling her that ladies don’t lean or slouch.

“Oh Jaime, do that again!” She frowned. Even breathy, the woman’s voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t pinpoint it. She grimaced at the moaning and sighing that came next, debating whether it wouldn’t just be better to go back to her room and find a book to read or a sewing project to finish. This was getting uncomfortable. She was just about to turn on her heel and head back when she heard something that froze her where she stood.

“Darling, you should be Hand. Robert’s obsession with Eddard Stark will only bring danger. He is a threat.” Oncle Jaime’s voice sounded tired as he said,

“Cersei. If I was Hand, I would have no reason to spend time close to you. I would be under a closer eye. And really, Eddard Stark, a threat? The man is so honorable he begged for the life of the wife of the man who raped his sister and keeps her in his home. He’s too honest to be a threat.” Maere said something in response, but Myrcella didn’t hear a word. She sank to the floor, hand over her mouth, and a cold pit in her stomach.

She knew Maere and Oncle Ja—what did she call him now?—were close. She had heard the nasty rumors that rose from none of the three of them looking Baratheon. But never, never had she put any truth to them before. She didn’t know how long she sat there, sick with horror.

When she finally found her way back to the rooms she had been given, she didn’t sleep.

* * *

_The second-best chambers, Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein _

Catelyn glared at the two ladies before her. Usually, she abstained from challenging the rule either of them held over Winterfell. She had learned years ago it was a fruitless task. But they had gone too far today.

“You have no right to berate me!” She snapped. “You were the ones who let Princesse Elia disrespect the Rei. You let blood almost be spilled.”

“Elia may have forgotten our plans—justly, I might add—but we contingencies had for that. Which you knew, Catelyn. You disobeyed your lord. As much she respects Yejyer, he is _not_ her lord. He _is_ yours, and you went against him. In public,” Dame Stark said, her voice flat and her eyes cold.

“And Cat, you know that has consequences.” She jumped as her lord husband’s sober voice came from behind her. She turned to look up at him, and she shivered. Eddard had never looked so furious in the time she had married him. She could almost give credence to the myths that the Starks had wolf or ice in their blood.

“Mun seignur?” She asked cautiously, her anger turning to worry.

“Sit. Down.” He growled, pointing at a chair by the fire. She sat, watching him closely. He locked the door, and began to pace, his direwolf winding around his legs. When he finally spoke again, he didn’t even glance at her, looking first at his mother.

“_Myema_. Would you and _Ujän_ Aszara run the castle when I am gone?” Catelyn wanted desperately to ask questions, but for once had the wisdom to hold her tongue. Dame Stark nodded, her brow furrowed. Eddard then grasped Dame Dustin’s hands, gentle in a way he never had been with her, as he said softly,

“My love. I hate to ask this burden of you, but will you take up the work of my title while I am in the South?” At this, Catelyn had to protest.

“I am your_ wife_, my lord. It is I who should take up your work if you are to travel South.” She abruptly shrunk back as he glared at her coldly, his hands still entwined with Dame Dustin’s.

“_You_, my lady wife will be traveling with our party and returning to Asharinnan. Where you will stay.” She gaped at him, struck speechless. She shivered as his wolf picked up on his mood, growling at her. “You were there when I laid out our plans, and you completely ignored my decrees. In front of the Rei.”

He paused, dropping Dame Dustin’s hand, coming to kneel before her. He put a disturbingly gentle hand against her cheek as he said softly,

“Catelyn, you have built the last stone in your barrow. Gladdened be that I am having mercy upon you.”

* * *

_The next morning—the Solar of Liara Ŝarqa, Tsasyetsbye Gubanitsyein _

Tsonse stared at her father in dismay, though not surprise.

“I am to marry whom, Avestsa?” She didn’t miss the abruptly tired cast to his face.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, my snow-dancer. I have no choice.” She believed him, with the odd feeling that accompanied her sparks of, well, prescience.

“I understand, my lord father. Will I be allowed to bring with me mine own ladies?” He nodded, seeming relieved that she had not caused a fuss. Tsonse felt a sharp rush of sympathy. Father had clearly not had an easy night. She glanced over at her mother, who was looking down with a subdued expression on her face. She bit the inside of her cheek, concerned. What had mother done? She had the sinking feeling it had something to do with mother’s save with the Usurper.

“Your own guards as well, sweetling. His Grace was very _gracious_ once I acceded to his request.” She nodded in acknowledgement as he continued. “Ujän Obara, Žengos Rus, Syerena, and Joryen will be your guard. I would request that Ujän Tiene, Ujän Jonyel, and Ujän Alis be in your ladies, but you may choose the others.” He paused, looking back at Ujän Barbri, who grimaced, but gave him an expectant look. He sighed.

“Elia and _Ghiovala_ Artur have decided to accompany you.” Tsonse gulped. She had hoped Nyengäa would decide otherwise, but she couldn’t say that she was all that surprised.

However, she did yelp in surprise when he pulled her into a tight hug. Father generally wasn’t a huge one for physical affection—and to be honest, neither was she. Which may have been from all the conflicting lessons on how to be a lady from the women who raised her.

“I know, dear one. I am as concerned as you are. But your aunt is a survivor, Tsonse. And she will be guarded by Artur, who is still quite formidable. Besides…have either of us ever been able to stop her when she decides on a course of action?” Her giggle was watery, but it was there.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible. After all, she would be a queen. She would be able to influence Northron policy. And _Prinze_ Joffrey was by no means a hardship to look at. With a pang, she mentally put her flirtation with Žomyeric to rest. She would have so loved to leash the Bulsons and be related to Myema by marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa. She has no idea what's going to happen next. And poor Myrcella; what a way to find out the truth
> 
> Translations:   
Avestsa = father (The Northern Tongue)  
Chevalier = knight (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Dame = lady (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Eksio = general title for a noble man or boy (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Gubanisv = builder (The Northern Tongue)  
Ghiovala = spear fighter (Dornish Rhoyne Valyrian)  
Maere = mother (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Myema = mom, mama (The Northern Tongue)  
Mun seignur = my lord (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
Oncle = uncle (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Princesse = princess (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Prinze = prince (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Rei’s Hið = King's Landing (portmanteau of Reach Dialect and West Andaii)  
Rei = king (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Ujän = lady (The Northern Tongue)  
Žengos = lord (The Northern Tongue)


	7. The Journey South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone travels south, Sansa becomes disillusioned with Joffrey, and Elia learns a secret

_Early Spring, 298 AC, Westeros—The North to Riverrun _

Tsonse and her ladies quieted as the _Prinze_ and his mother walked past, curtseying deeply. Once the two royals passed out of earshot, all of the girls shivered with disgust. Tsonse shared a worried look with Myerisa, petting Ujän for reassurance. The _Reine_ was utterly terrifying, with a sharp tongue and observant eye that she seemed to use only to entrap others. The snap-back between her sugary sweet demeanor and a more disdainful expressiveness mindful of smelling manure under her nose only increased their unease.

The _Prinze_ was nothing but mannered and knightly to Tsonse and her ladies, though Ujän didn’t appear to like him much, but he was cruel to the servants and common folk in their party. She hadn’t wanted to believe those rumors at the first, but she could no longer deny it when Tiene and Jonyel dragged her over to hide and watch the heir to the throne tormenting the butcher’s boy. Only through sheer willpower did she manage to keep her eyes watching when he sliced open the poor boy’s throat. She did promptly vomit into the bushes once they had gotten a safe distance away. Tsonse wasn’t by any means innocent, but she had never met a man who so gleefully killed someone as the_ Prinze_ did.

She rested her head in Tiene’s lap, sighing with relief when the older girl began to massage her scalp.

“Thank you, Tiene.”

“Not at all, Tsonse. You looked tense enough to shatter into pieces,” Tiene smiled down at her wryly. One of the other ladies, revealing herself to be Wäla by her voice, snorted.

“I can’t be blaming her for that, Ujän Tiene, doubting as I am that she’s the only one.” There was a soft murmur of agreement around the small circle of ladies. Alis spoke up next, her voice as sharply nasal as always, but with a tremor of worry.

“I believe our Ganžar has the same concerns. He did not quietly agree to these terms. He was planning to wed you to ŽengosŽomyeric or Jonyel’s brother, no?” Tsonse straightened in a rush, almost hitting Tiene at the chin. She glared quellingly at her distant cousin.

“Alis, we are in the middle of the court, you cannot say such things!” Alis raised her brow and leaned against Wäla with a worrying lack of concern.

“And among the royal party, who do you believe speaks our tongue?” Tiene clicked her tongue disapprovingly, though her voice was still warm as she said,

“_Ariña_ Alis. The Baratheon has his spies, as well you know. And the Spider does reach his fingers into the north.” Alis appeared petulantly ready to argue but closed her mouth as she abruptly narrowed her eyes just past Tsonse and Tiene.

Tsonse turned to see what had captured her argumentative cousin’s attention and widened her eyes as they landed on _Princesse_ Myrcella. Behind her, everyone had fallen silent.

“Your highness, to what do we owe this pleasure?” She asked finally. She didn’t know why the younger girl grimaced at her question.

“Please, do not call me that, _Dame_ Tsonse. We are to be sisters.” She hesitated. “…I was trying to avoid _Maere_. May I join you?” Tsonse blinked. Both at the correct pronunciation, and the request.

“…Of course,…_Dame_ Myrcella. Do sit down.”

* * *

Myrcella knew she had interrupted a deep conversation, but she simply could not stand to be alone any longer. Nor could she spend time among her family and smile to their faces while wondering if they knew about Mother. She grimaced at the heavy silence that had fallen among the other ladies. It wasn’t surprising—she was a Lannister daughter and the youngest among them by a few years. But Myrcella had never been one to enjoy silence and tension. She was a cheery and outgoing person by nature. So, she took a deep breath and spoke.

“Mes dames, would you tell me about the North? Or Dorne? I must admit to little knowledge of either.” She knew she’d made the right choice when the uneasiness of the small circle abruptly lessened, and several intrigued looks crept past cool masks that could challenge those of lifelong courtiers.

“Fair is fair, Dame Myrcella. Would you tell us of Rei’s Hið in return?” Dame Tsonse asked in her guttural, but beautifully lilting accent.

“Of course, Dame Tsonse,” Myrcella said, managing a sincere smile for the first time in what felt like many days. “I will even start if you like.” Dame Tsonse leaned forward, her beautiful red braid swinging with the motion.

“I would like that, Dame Myrcella. I must admit I am curious as to what Rei’s Landing looks like now.” Myrcella forced herself to stay relaxed at the allusion to Fa—the King’s rebellion.

“Naturally.” She paused, thinking. “…You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that there are already Dornish and Northrons in the court. In fact, most of them stayed behind on the trip North.” None of the ladies looked surprised at her admission, fueling Myrcella’s theory that all the kingdoms had their “little birds” as Seignur Varys called them.

“Of all of them, Prinze Elyos is my favorite by far. He is always kind, and never condescends to children. Once, when he had first arrived at court, I had been wandering the palace, having sneaked away from my septa. I was lost among the dragon skulls deep in the lower levels. It was dark, and I was hopelessly lost when suddenly, this tall, heavyset man, about Grandfather’s age, appeared with a torch. He smiled down at me, saying, ‘what is such a lovely young lady like yourself doing hiding in the dark?’ I explained to him how I had found myself there, and his smile widened. We spent several more hours there as he told me about the dragons who rested there and showed me passages I had never seen before. When he finally led me back up to the upper levels, and my rather frantic mother, he left me with the encouragement to visit his household whenever I liked.” She paused again, looking down, unsure whether the ladies surrounding her would appreciate the last part of the story. She twisted an artistically free curl around her finger as she added quietly, “He also said that I reminded him of another blonde princesse he had known, that I had the same cheer and vi-vivacity.”

* * *

Elia came to a sudden stop, hand over her mouth, ignoring the sudden loud cursing as _Seignur_ Tyrion ran into her skirts with soft thud. Once they had both regained their balance—thankfully without a fall into the muddy snow—she turned to look at him.

“I believe I’ve located your niece, _mun seignur_.” He looked in the direction she tilted her head, his eyes widening.

“She…is with your own. Now that, I would not have expected, _Princesse_ Elia.” Her lips twitched.

“Neither would I. But what I find more surprising, _mun seignur_, is that she is the little blonde lady my father said reminded him of my Rhaenys.” Tyrion was now gaping at her, and she motioned him into her nearby tent, Artur and Nemeria following them. Elia waited patiently, pouring out a sweet spice wine to incentivize his speech, as she knew for a fact, it was a Torñish wine he would likely have not tasted before, as they only sold their surpluses to the Crown- and Westerlands. She winced as he downed the entire goblet in one swallow, without even seeming to taste it. He sputtered, his face red, but let her refill it. He cleared his throat, setting the glass aside on the low table between them.

“So, that was the reason he befriended her. I do hope Cersei never learns of it.” Elia shook her head, sipping more measuredly at her own wine.

“He wrote me of befriending her, though he never mentioned a name. For that reason, I thought her a Lannister, or even of a Dragonstone house. I—” She frowned, narrowing her eyes at Tyrion, who had frozen with his glass to his lips when she mentioned the Lannisters. A tendril of a theory began to rise in her mind. She set her glass down with a solid thunk on the wooden table. “She didn’t…” She trailed off as Tyrion’s reddish complexion went pale. “She did,” she finished tiredly. It wasn’t a question.

Since he looked about to panic and run out to do something reckless, she added,

“I will not tell anyone, _Seignur_ Tyrion. Yet. I have no wish to harm innocent children. Rest assured, however, that I will be talking to your brother.” He didn’t look anymore reassured, in all truth, but he no longer seemed about to knock over his chair in his rush to protect his niece. Elia could sincerely admire a man who was so fiercely devoted to his children—for she could see that _Seignur_ Tyrion was more of a father to Myrcella and Tommen than Jaime or Robert ever could be. So, she offered a compromise. “_Seignur_ Tyrion. If you will not take my word, I offer you two ways in which to prove it. You may either accompany me to my discussion with your brother, or you may walk with my niece’s guards.”

* * *

“Jaime Lannister of the Reisguard, I demand to speak with you!” Jaime could positively say that one of the last things he expected to see when he heard his name called angrily across the camp grounds was _Princesse_ Elia of Dorne striding toward him with his little brother running in her wake. He was marginally proud that he didn’t turn tail and run at the look on her face. His face heated as Robert chuckled beside him.

“The Dornish are fiery folk, aren’t they, _Chevalier_ Lannister? I do not envy you for getting her ire up.” Jaime forced a strained smile to his face.

“Indeed, my _rei_. May I…?” Robert slapped him on the back in what Jaime assumed was meant to be a commiserating gesture.

“Of course, go appease the Dornish bitch. Your sworn brothers will face no strain without you.” Jaime nodded quickly, rushing to _Princesse_ Elia’s side before she reached the king. He winced when she threaded her arm through his—her nails were still just as sharp, and her grip as surprisingly tight as they had been years ago.

“Ma dame. You look well. To what do I owe the pleasure—” she cut him off with a slashing motion of her free hand.

“None of your pleasantries, Jaime. We will have a conversation, and you will not disrupt it with any of your japes.” He looked around, realizing he was surrounded by Torñish and Northrons but for Tyrion, so he nodded, seeing no way out at the moment. He began to get nervous when he realized they were well out of earshot of the main camp.

“Sit down, lad. We don’t plan to kill you.” Jaime gaped up at the man who shoved him gently to the ground.

“_Chevalier_ Artur, I thought—”

“—That I was dead, aye?” The older man finished with a humorless grin. Jaime closed his mouth, chewing the corner of his lip.

“Aye,” he said quietly, his heart slightly twinging. Gods, he had missed Artur. The man had been a fundamental corner of his life in the Reisguard…until he wasn’t. Artur smiled sadly at him.

“You know why I could not tell you, yes?” Jaime felt a hot spark of defensive anger rise in his throat, but for once he quashed it, looking sullenly down at the ground.

“I do, _Chevalier_.”

“I had no doubt in that, Jaime,” Artur said warmly before he nudged him gently. Jaime reluctantly looked up to see _Princesse_ Elia looking down at him with crossed arms, and an unimpressed expression. Jaime couldn’t help either his shoulders or his unease rising.

“Jaime. I always knew the two of you were reckless, but I didn’t know you wished to be bitten by a scorpion.” He lunged forward, glaring at her, and before he could think better of the urge, he snapped,

“And who told you, Elia _Targaryen_.”

_Shit_, he thought almost immediately after, as the whole host around him unsheathed their swords, and Artur shook his head with a stormy frown on his face. Jaime—with considerable will-power—forced himself to sit back and relax his muscles. _Princesse_ Elia was looking at him with an amount of distaste he realized he had never before seen on her face, even after Rhaegar died.

“Jaime,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice, “I thought the one thing you never wished to be was a Targaryen. You forget. I know you, I know Cersei. Not as well as I thought I did, but enough. I thought both of you would have known better than to risk producing a child like Joffrey. He is the worst of both of you.” He slumped, suddenly exhausted.

“I know.” She nodded, the expression on her face fading a little.

“I can see from the way you treat him. But Jaime…”

“What.” She raised a reproving brow at his irritated growl.

“I am not the only one who knows. If you don’t do something, people will die. And not the ones we want.” He blinked up at her.

“We? Do you not hate me?” He jumped in surprise at the abrasiveness of her laugh.

“Jaime, I never hated you. I don’t think of you enough to hate you. But I don’t wish the death of children, even monstrous ones. No, the one man still living that I hate beside your father is Robert Baratheon.” She bent down, balancing herself with a hand on his shoulder.

“If you will continue in your foolishness, I would advise being careful, and that your sister have a black-haired child. You won’t be able to hide forever.”

* * *

Catelyn was terrified. Not only because she was being sent back to Riverrun in disgrace, without any of her babes, but also because there was something rotten in the court of Robert Baratheon. And Seignur Eddard was marrying Sansa to the most visible rot of all.

Oh, she knew he didn’t wish it, but he wasn’t preventing it either. Small comfort was the knowledge that Sansa was going into this horror of a marriage with her eyes wide open, contrary to her mother. But, thought Catelyn, none of that knowledge would protect her eldest daughter’s body, only her heart and mind. She tried to help Sansa—when she could find her—but Riverrun came all too soon.

It was with a heavy heart, and serious concern that Catelyn Tully bid her eldest daughter goodbye. She didn’t know that was the last time she would directly hear from any of her children for a very long time.

* * *

_Mid-Spring, 298 AC, Westeros—Riverrun to Rei’s Landing_

Myrcella approached Dame Tsonse cautiously. While Joffrey’s betrothed and her ladies had been nothing but kind to her, she had not yet spoken to the lady alone. To her surprise, Tsonse looked up from her letter before Myrcella had reached even within arm’s reach of her.

“Dame Myrcella, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?” Myrcella scuffed her slippers uncomfortably on the ground.

“May we speak privately, ma dame?” Dame Tsonse frowned down at her, folding her letter.

“Would my tent suffice for your needs?” Myrcella looked quickly around, seeing only two of the older lady’s guards around, and bit her lip before nodding. Her brother’s betrothed then turned on her heel to walk rapidly back to her tented pavilion, Myrcella following. She repressed a protest when Seignur Rus and Dame Obara took up positions inside the entrance of the pavilion, but Dame Tsonse seemed to notice her discomfort regardless, and did something peculiar.

Besides sending her direwolf to lie across the entrance, Tsonse lit two torches that burned with an eerie blue light and dappled the entirety of the makeshift room in that shade. Gracefully sitting atop her bedroll, the older girl looked up at her with an expectant expression.

“Please, Dame Myrcella, inform me of what worries you.” Myrcella took a deep breath, and forced her worries to a temporary distance, though she knew they would crash down later.

“Tsonse, you cannot marry my brother.” Instead of indignantly asking why, the other girl tilted her head.

“You are his sister. Why would you say such? Unless he is also cruel to you?” Myrcella flinched, and Dame Tsonse immediately leaned toward her with an apologetic expression.

“My condolences, ma dame. Brothers should be comrades and protectors. But you know as well as I cannot refuse his suit merely for his cruelty, especially as he has not directed any of it toward me.” Myrcella bowed her head. She had hoped that her mention of Joffrey’s true nature would spark enough misgivings for Dame Tsonse to protest the match, but she was not altogether surprised that it wasn’t. She had learned that the older girl was not one to shirk her duty, particularly if it protected her family, as the rumors floating around the traveling court suggested. She took another breath, clenching her fists, and wishing she could have brought Balerion with her on this journey.

“…He is not the Rei’s son. You, my lady, cannot marry a bastard.” _Or be friends with one_, she thought darkly, forgetting the fact that half her prospective sister’s siblings were bastards themselves. She looked at the cloth walls beside her, not wanting to see the expression on Dame Tsonse’s face as the other lady thought through the implications of her words.

Myrcella was more than shocked when a gentle hand landed on her knee, squeezing comfortingly before a much firmer one turned her head to meet the other girl’s eyes.

“Thank you, Dame Myrcella. I will do my best to find proof, but not without protecting you and Prinze Tommen.” Myrcella stared at her in shock, just barely managing to prevent her mouth from dropping open in shock. Most wouldn’t even dream of protecting a bastard child from their parents’ choices, let alone the two Myrcella sprang from—she was far from ignorant of the true natures of any of her parents.

In that moment, Myrcella Baratheon fell more than a little bit in love with Tsonse Ŝarqa.

* * *

Elia smiled as she came upon her nieces. Tiene was braiding particularly bright and sharp jewels and pins into Tsonse’s hair as her younger niece read from a book of Torñish poetry, her pronunciation of the Rhoyne-Valyrian marked by few mistakes. Obara was standing guard behind them, a fond look in her eye. Elia was far from surprised to see Nemeria’s hopeful face as they approached.

“Go, go, my sweetling. Stand guard with your sister and her partner.” Oberyn’s second daughter needed no prompting, rushing to join her sister, who greeted her with an amused smirk. Apprised by the movement around them, Tsonse and Tiene looked up, smiles blooming on their faces.

“_Nyengäa_ Elia!”

“Momendi!” “Come join us, do? Enjoy the warmth.” Elia chuckled, spreading her skirts on the grassy meadow of the southern riverlands they were now established in.

“Tsonse, sweetling, if you think this warm, I worry to think how you will survive _Rei’s Hið_ or Torñe.” Tsonse smiled at her, eyes twinkling, as she leaned back against Tiene, who had wrapped her arms around her, having finally finished braiding her hair.

“Oh, I know, _Nyengäa_. I am simply enjoying the sun and flowers.” She leaned forward, careful not to dislodge Tiene or her handiwork, a sharper look coming to her face as she held out a hand. Elia blinked in surprise as ice began to creep across her niece’s hand and frost the grass below it. She looked up to see that unearthly blue light in Tsonse’s eyes and the weirwood pins in her hair growing whiter.

“So. Not only do you have_ Ujän_ and the heart trees, dear one, you still have that strength as well.” Tsonse nodded, the manifestations of her gifts slowly fading back away with the action.

“It is only difficult when there is little water or much heat, but it is still possible.” Tiene’s sly smile matched the one Elia felt on her face. Before they could speak of the conclusion Elia believed all three of them were coming to, _Princesse_ Myrcella walked into their little confabulation, her steps hesitating as her gaze held on Elia. She toned back her smile to friendly rather than unnerving and patted the grass beside her.

“Princess, do come join us. I would love to further my acquaintance of the girl my father said reminded him of my Rhaenys.” When the girl still hesitated, Elia said, her voice full of good humor,

“I do not bite, I promise. Though Ujän might.” To her slight surprise, _Princesse_ Myrcella laughed, a hearty, if abrupt, giggle before sweeping her skirts into a comfortable seat.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, _Princesse_ Elia. _Oncle_ Tyrion says you are one of the cleverest and kindest women he has met.” Elia snorted, not even attempting to seem ladylike.

“I am unsure whether he meant that to be a compliment or an insult, knowing your uncle.” _Princesse_ Myrcella grinned, her face lighting up.

“I as well, ma dame.”

* * *

It took almost another two months for the court and their Northron companions to reach Rei’s Hið. And so, the first sight of the capital for many of them was in the heat and sun of high summer. It stank to the high heavens, and its appearance was little better.

Those who had traveled from the North made no secret of their disappointment and disgust. Elia shared a grimace with Artur as they both said in unison,

“I remember why I never had any desire to return.” Jaime Lannister, who had begun a habit of riding with the two on the journey south—much to Nemeria’s irritation—made what was perhaps an ill-considered jape.

“You mean aside from exile and claimed death?” He promptly shut his mouth as they turned in-sync to fix him with a cold stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:   
Ariña = general title for a noble woman or girl (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Chevalier = knight (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Dame = lady (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Ganžar = foremost leader (The Northern Tongue)  
Ma dame = my lady (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Maere = mother (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Mes dames = my ladies (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Momendi = sister of one's father (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Mun seignur = my lord (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
Oncle = uncle (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Princesse = princess (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Prinze = prince (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Rei = king (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Reine = queen (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Rei's Hið = King's Landing (a portmanteau of Reach Dialect and West Andaii)  
Seignur = lord (Reach Dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Torñe = kingdom (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ujän = lady (The Northern Tongue)  
Žengos = lord (The Northern Tongue)


	8. Vipers Biding Their Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we visit Dorne, and learn some secrets

_298 AC, The Water Gardens, Dorne // Kasrhơnkelbar, Torñe _

Toran looked out over the pools with a smile, his eyes resting on the children splashing in the water. Elia and his nieces had been right.

Just over a year in Torñe, and Aria had already taken to the climate and culture of his desert kingdom as if she had been born here. She missed her parents and siblings, of course, but so far the many letters, the company of her cousin Jon, and the many Martel children—along with Elia’s visits—were helping greatly in alleviating homesickness.

A particular interaction in the water caught his eye, and he chuckled. And, of course, there was the effect Aria was having on Arianñe. His eldest and heir could be serious beyond her years, and he struggled in reaching her. Aria, on the other hand, had splashed the Darilendarion of Torñe in the face before attempting to dunk her. She had almost succeeded and was now screaming laughter as the grinning older girl chased her around the pool in an effort to retaliate.

“It is good to see her smile, mine aeksodarion.” Toran turned, not at all surprised at the new voice, rotating his chair far enough to prevent sun glare.

“It is indeed, Ketanea.” The younger sister of Teghünmariz Qortene was looking down at him, arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face. Toran raised a brow at his current (and rather casually so) paramour.

“Should I be concerned about that look on your face, my friend?” She startled at his question, her veil falling backwards before she caught it, and he realized she had been lost in thought.

“Would you mind repeating that, Toran?” He laughed and followed her request. She was frowning by the time he had finished. Perching on the edge of his chair, she lowered her voice.

“Not precisely as such, mine aeksodarion. However, I have heard from my sister that she is not the only one unhappy with where our tarilēros must travel.” She paused, her face darkening as she looked over to the children again. “They are unhappy with your seeming inaction—some seem to prefer Arianñe’s impulsivity and youth.” Toran felt a headache growing at her words, but he still tipped her into his lap. Ketanea’s face brightened as she let out a startled squeak.

“Mine aeksodarion!” He smiled down at her, meeting her shining black eyes before bending past their gaze to land a succession of dragonfly-light, teasing kisses along her face and neck.

“Ketanea, why don’t we leave these heavier matters for later thought. I can think of much better ways to occupy a Torñen spring at the Garden of Rivers.” She giggled, her arms gripping his shoulders tightly—even tighter as he pulled apart the fastenings of her dress and bent his attention to her breasts.

It was perhaps lucky that the couple was shielded from public view by the treetops and vines engulfing the small balcony.

Though Areo Hotah certainly wished that the greenery blocked sound as well as sight. There were some things even the most loyal of guards felt uncomfortable witnessing without invitation

* * *

_Early Spring, 298 AC—Sunspear, Dorne // Berosighiorơ, Torñe_

Toran dropped the letter on his desk and pinched his nose tiredly. This was going to be a nightmare, and Elia’s letter was in no manner reassuring. Nor were those of his nieces and Artur. At least Oberin was off traveling and couldn’t ruin anything with his temper. Toran looked up, grateful for the distraction, when he heard a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called, ignoring the way Areo Hotah shifted irritably in his chosen corner. He knew his personal guard would vastly prefer the ability to answer for him. Toran smiled as Jon cautiously pushed the door open. Though they shared no blood, his foster-son reminded him in many ways of himself as a young man. Both of them were quiet, considered individuals, who rarely lost their tempers, and preferred being alone to chatter.

“Good day, Lord Uncle. How was your rest?” Though Jon was decidedly more polite than Toran had been at that age. He was unsure whether Aszara or Byenjen was behind that development, but the young Snow took after his step-father in attitude as well. Toran grinned, leaning against the padded back of his chair.

“Not bad, not bad at all, foster-son. And yourself?” Jon shrugged. Toran, though pleased, had to ask, “What brings you to my study so early in the morning, nephew?”

“Hasañi Toran, are they all going to be well?” Toran was touched by the endearment, which his foster-son used rarely, but less so by the circumstances of its use. He didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t understand Jon’s question.

“Your mother will be staying in the Winter-Built Hall, as will the paramour of your lepeka, Ariña Barbri.” Jon frowned, walking closer to Toran’s desk.

“But who is going to that cesspool, Hasañi? I heard rumors…” Toran sighed, his good mood once again banished.

“I will tell you, but I must have your oath that you not tell Aria, your foster-siblings, or your foster-cousins. They are restless enough already without my confirming their worries as of yet. I will not have innocent blood spilled by mine own family.” Jon nodded soberly, his fist to his heart.

“I swear by the Mother of Waters and the Earth’s Children, _ñơna aeksodarion_, that I will not breath a word that you tell me here to any other than my father or those you mention.” Toran cleared his throat awkwardly before saying,

“On behalf of myself and the gods, I accept your pledge, _ñơna rhina gaoliski_.” Of course, his foster-son already knew the traditions of his adoptive land by heart, Toran thought wryly as he motioned for the fifteen-year-old to sit. By now, he honestly shouldn’t be surprised, but swearing so earnestly by the gods was rare even in septs these days, let alone at court. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk.

“Jon, how much have you learned from the letters of Aszara and your cousin?” It was Jon’s turn to sigh this time.

“Neither of them said it straight out, but it doesn’t seem that either Lepeka Yejyer or Tsonse had a choice about going south. And Lepesi Catelyn has been sent to Riverrun. Something drastic must have happened, but I cannot for the life of me discover what.” Toran pulled his latest report on the Land of Enduring Snow, handing it to the younger man. Jon’s eyes quickly flew across the loops and curves of Rhoyne-Valyrian. His face showed no emotion, but his feelings were evident from the way the parchment began to protest his tightening grip. Setting it down with exaggerated calm, Jon looked up.

“They are all hostages to Lepeka’s good behavior. And he at the mercy of the Usurper’s temper.” It wasn’t a question. Toran could only nod. Jon scrubbed at his eyes furiously. His direwolf Žiutsgyel whined nervously, clearly reflecting his mood. A tense silence settled over Toran’s study, only broken by the agitated canine. Finally, Jon blew out a breath, his eyes dark.

“My Lord Uncle, how far do you trust this report?” Toran laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. Jon was not going to like his answer. Despite only seeing his second-oldest legitimate cousin a few times since the age of eight, the two were close, and Jon was rather protective of Tsonse, in a way Aria would never let him be.

“Jon, you know I have my people in your homeland?” Jon nodded, his brow furrowed.

“Just as Lepeka has his own here.” Toran sighed.

“We each politely ignore the ones we know of, either for the sake of peace, or because those agents are useful in other ways. Or because we care for them.” Jon was beginning to stare at him suspiciously.

“Hasañi, what are you trying to say that I will not like? Please, just tell me as clearly as possible.” Toran pushed himself up onto his feet, ignoring the twinge of pain the motion produced.

“I am sure your mother and step-father have informed you of the identity of the North-Star. However, I am certain that no one has ever told you that of the Snow-Bird.” He paused. “You are quite intelligent enough to figure such out if I inform you of her tenure. She began feeding us information in late ’95.” Jon sat down with a thump, and Toran started counting to ten. _1…2…3…4…_The humidity in the normally dry room rose with an almost audible snap, and Jon leaped to his feet, a murderous expression on his face. As his foster-son stalked closer, Toran held up a hand to stop a frustrated Areo. The growling albino direwolf at Jon’s side settled warily when Toran gave him a reproving look, but the younger man did no such thing. Jumping was a near thing when Jon slammed his fist on the desk, sending papers flying.

“SHE. WAS. NINE. SUMMERS.” Toran pinched the bridge of his nose.

“A year older than you were when you came here, Jon. Old enough to handle such a responsibility. You know she had already begun helping manage the Hall.” Jon’s face was inches from his own as he growled,

“Toran, what do you have on her that could make her betray Lepeka in such a way?” Toran was tempted to growl back, but somehow, he managed to keep an even tone as he said,

“Sit. Down. Are you going to behave like a Garden’s boy or a grown man of the court?” When Jon didn’t move, he nodded at Areo, who strong-armed his foster-son back to his chair with badly concealed eagerness. Toran ignored Jon’s scowling glare as he continued.

“Do you truly think your oath-sister, raised as she was by Barbri Räswyela and the Silent Wolf, lacks the cunning, even at nine summers, to prevent blackmail?” Jon crossed his arms, Žiutsgyel mirroring his growl. Toran met his gaze firmly.

“…No.” He finally muttered, with considerable ill-humor. His knees aching in a familiar warning sign, Doran sat in his chair.

“Quite so. She wrote to me first. Her offer was her own.” Jon blinked.

“She what?” Toran nodded, relieved to see Jon’s usually inquisitive thoughtfulness return.

“Those letters that tend to arrive a day after Elia’s? They are from your cousin.” Jon frowned, leaning forward, though Žiutsgyel stayed sprawled next to his chair.

“Why?” Toran shrugged.

“Your cousin was raised to be the power behind the seat in the Land of Enduring Snow. I believe some of her driving to be ambition, though not with any negative intent. She cares deeply about other people, and I think she believes me to be an ally in keeping the common folk safe and happy.” Jon stared at him for a long moment before bending to pick up the closest of the papers he’d scattered. He returned them to Toran’s desk with the quiet comment,

“You return the favor.” Toran inclined his head.

“And I teach her how to rule.” Jon smiled a bit at that, and Toran leaned back, finally feeling his muscles relaxing. Oh, dear gods, was he going to be sore later. Perhaps Ketanea would do him the kindness of a massage.

“Do Mơña and _Avestsa_ know?” He sighed at Jon’s question.

“They suspect, as does your maternal uncle. I doubt your Lord Uncle has any idea, but your grandmother and his paramour likely suspect as well. Besides you and Areo…Elia is the only one to whom I have confirmed it.” He paused, a tired grin coming to his face. “She was just as furious as you were when she found out.” His foster-son chuckled, and Toran knew the almost-breach between them was healing. “I can just see her now, shouting the everlasting night out of you.” He sobered quickly, his hands petting his direwolf in a repetitive, rapid action.

“Uncle, what are we going to do?” Toran ignored the shiver that went down his spine at Jon’s question.

“Right now…all we can do is wait—and hope for the best.”

_A Few Months Later_

Toran had to wonder why he’d wished his daughter would act a little less like him. He glared at her, somewhat relieved that at least she would wait for privacy to challenge him. Arianñe glared stubbornly back, looking painfully like her mother in that moment.

“Father, how could you? Leaving them all alone in that place, even the Northrons?” Toran crossed his arms, not letting up his glare in the least.

“I would ask you, daughter of mine, what, exactly, you suggest I do instead? You are old enough to remember the last time both our peoples and your foster-brother’s ventured upon the capital in great numbers.” His daughter and heir huffed in clear irritation but attempted no real answer to his pointed question. Unsurprised, Toran added, “I would also remind you that they are far from alone. Not only does your grandfather reside there, all Northrons living in the south owe us a great debt, as do our people to them.” Her petulant expression didn’t change, and Toran was hard-pressed not to let out an exasperated sigh himself.

“Arianñe. We are not without allies there, especially if you agree to the betrothal with Janos Tyrell. Olenna is wily, but even she won’t go against all five of her grandchildren.”

“Janos is fourteen, Father. And you know Willas is besotted with Lepeka and Ellaria. You’re telling me we cannot rely on that?” She hissed, her spiraling Norvos curls bouncing wildly as she stomped closer to him. Toran groaned.

“Of course we cannot, which you know very well. Willas cannot marry either of them. He is the heir of the Reach and a follower of the Seven.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a migraine coming on. “Arianñe. You know happy marriages can come from age gaps. Your grandmother was eight years older than your grandfather. Not to mention, a similarity in age is no guarantee of happiness—take your mother and I for example. What is the actual problem?” His daughter drew her (quite short) frame up to as imposing a height as she could manage, and for a moment, as her face darkened, Toran was worried she would just storm off. _It would figure, wouldn’t it_, he thought wryly, that he would fight with the two children he was closest to within the same season. He tended to have luck like that. But then she deflated, looking suddenly forlorn. He tilted his head curiously, his own anger and irritation beginning to trickle away. Arianñe bit her lip in an uncharacteristically insecure action and went over to kneel by his chair. She rested her chin on his knee, looking up at him in a manner reminiscent of the way she had before the chaos after Mellario left had driven a rift between them.

“Kepe, could you ever hate me for something?” She asked, her voice soft. Toran frowned, a chill of worry knotting the base of his spine.

“…No. Be furious with you, yes. But hate you—never.” He hesitated, stroking her hair gently, a bit surprised she relaxed into the motion. “What brings on such a serious question?” _And what does it have to do with Janos Tyrell?_

“Janos is a sweet boy. But he would be much happier with a woman not in love with another. Especially one in love with a man she shouldn’t have.” Toran blinked. His confident, voracious daughter whose appetite—much to his occasional discomfort—rivaled her uncle’s, interested in only one man? He supposed it wasn’t unbelievable, but he certainly found it surprising. He honestly hadn’t thought his eldest would ever settle for anyone longer than it took to have an heir. He pushed down the disquiet her words about this mysterious love had brought up. Clearly, right now Arianñe didn’t need his own worries. She needed comfort and a confidant from her father.

“Arianñe, darling, do you really think Janos could—or would—stop the Darilendarion of Torñe from being involved with the man she loves? He would have no legal authority over you.” His daughter sighed, her eyes bright.

“You might think me a peculiar sudden romantic, Kepe, but I can’t force a boy who hasn’t even seen the world into a loveless marriage.” Toran smiled softly at her.

“Daughter of mine, I don’t think that at all. I think it kind—not to mention thoughtful—of you, to consider that.” She laughed weakly.

“Not to mention unexpected.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. Now, what is so terrible about this love of yours that you fear my reaction?” She shook her head, avoiding his gaze, so he persisted. “Is he older than I? An Orphan of the Greenblood? A northerner? A Lannister? A Baratheon?” To all of these, his daughter shook her head, looking more than a little horrified at the last two. But still, she didn’t answer, her gaze dark.

“Arianñe, is he common? Because I would take no issue with that, though I would insist he be taught the rules and manners of our court.”

“No,” she said, her voice low. And still, not looking him in the eyes.

“Then what is the gods be damned problem with him, child?” He asked, his voice approaching—but not quite becoming—a shout. Arianñe pulled her knees to her chest, for a rare instance looking younger than her twenty-two summers.

“Kepe, please don’t tell him. He doesn’t know. And I have no intention of ever informing him.”

“…Very well,” Toran said after a few moments of consideration, his earlier disquiet rising back up. And this time he didn’t believe he would be able to force it back down. Arianñe took a few—clearly steadying—breaths before she finally met his gaze.

“It’s Jon, Papa.” For a moment, Toran thought he’d misheard her. Absently, he noticed Areo Hotah’s own expression of surprise before his guard’s face smoothed out to its usual stoic mask. Then his attention was drawn back to his daughter. Arianñe was shaking slightly as she said, “Jon Tsasyen.” No, he hadn’t misheard her. “Please, Kepe, tell me you’re not angry.”

“I’m not angry with you, darling daughter,” he said, more or less honestly. The main feeling he was experiencing right now was shock more than anything else. “I do, however, want to know how long you’ve been in love with your foster-brother, and who you’ve told.” Arianñe looked down at her hennaed hands, but her voice was clear, and she seemed steadier now that she’d admitted her secret.

“Papa, I’ve always thought him sweet. When my enjoyment of his company became love, I couldn’t really tell you, because I don’t know.” Toran sighed.

“It could be worse, though I must own to a great deal of shock. Despite the fact I think of him as a son, he is no relation of ours. It is far better than my concern that you’d fallen in love with one of your cousins or uncles. Or worse, followed the Lannisters.” Arianñe looked up at him with a disgusted expression at the last.

“Kepe! Those rumors are true?” Toran nodded, grimacing in similar disgust.

“Imagine my relief now the shock is fading,” he said dryly. That elicited a short, broken laugh. He leaned forward, still puzzled by one thing.

“Arianñe, I understand why you worried about my reaction, particularly because of mine and your brothers’ familial relationship with Jon. But why are you so afeared of his knowledge or reaction?” He rolled his chair close enough to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you worried he will be disgusted? That he only thinks of you as a sister?” She sighed, massaging her scalp.

“I suppose…but I think truly that I worry about the success of a love match.” Toran couldn’t keep himself from wincing. Arianñe gave him an apologetic look.

“Sorry, Papa. I just…I look at you and Mơña , and I know love isn’t enough. Especially with two people of different cultures.” Toran coughed, trying to hide his amusement.

“Arianñe. Not only is Jon half-Torñen himself, he likely knows more of our customs and history than you.” She shrugged, flushing.

“I am being rather silly, I know, but I am frightened. I’ve never fallen in love before.” Toran smiled at her, his heart aching a little.

“I understand that, darling. I will make different arrangements for a Tyrell betrothal. Do you think Qeten and Margaery would get along well?” She nodded absently.

“I think it is worth a discussion, Papa.” He squeezed her shoulder gently as he left.

“Arianñe…you should tell him. You never know what might happen. And I can think of far worse candidates as your consort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aria = Arya Stark  
Arianñe (arri-ahn-nyey) = Arianne Martell  
Qortene (core-tey-ney) = Jordayne  
Ketanea (keh-tah-neh-ah) is a Jordayne OC  
Žiutsgyel (zhi-ouch-gehl) = Ghost  
Janos Tyrell is an OC younger sibling of Willas, Garlan, and Margaery  
Qeten (keh-ten) = Quentyn Martell
> 
> Translations:  
Aeksodarion = master of the dominion (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ariña = general title for a noble woman or girl (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Avestsa = father (The Northern Tongue)  
Darilendarion =heir of the dominion (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Hasañi = respected male authority figure (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Kepe = father (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Lepeka = father's brother (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Lepesi = wife of father's brother (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Mơña = mother (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
ñơna aeksodarion = my king, my liege (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
ñơna rhina gaoliski = my child of duty (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Tarilēros = princess (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Teghünmariz = land owner (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Torñe = kingdom (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Torñen = Dornish (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Žiutsgyel = ghost (The Northern Tongue)
> 
> I know my spy codenames are dramatic. However, so were some real-life ones.  
Is Tsonse/Sansa young to be handling such responsibility? Yes. However, this is a medieval setting. She would likely be expected to start learning household management at a young age, even if the spy thing is far-fetched. 
> 
> Er…I didn’t actually expect this revelation. In some ways, it kind of makes Tsonse’s spying more believable, to be honest. What the heck, brain.


	9. Gilded Corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intriguing interlude revealing some of the players of the capital. Varys makes an intriguing offer.

Late 298 AC, Westeros—Rei’s Landing

Tsonse knew she was far from the only one of her ladies to be disappointed and discomfited by the capital of Westeros. It was obvious from Tieñe’s frown, Alis’s wrinkled nose, and Wäla’s flat expression.

She held on to the stories of the Ulangiri Sumoq’s magnificence that Ujän Myrcella had waxed on about as they entered past the gates and through streets of varying squalor. Though, at this point, she thought as she waved from her horse, and sent Jonyel to tell their guards to gift bread and a few coins to the people lining the streets, she would settle for a sturdy, clean, and imposing fortress like home.

She heard the clip of horse hooves behind her, and rapidly affixed a smile upon her face, turning to land her eyes upon Joffrey.

“_Dame_ Sansa, it is glorious, is it not?” He asked, his gilded words falling flat, knowing as she did his true nature and seeing the poverty surrounding them. Instead of voicing her disgust, however, Tsonse looked down in a manner she knew appeared bashful.

“I am simply overcome _mun seignur_. It is like nothing I have ever seen before.” Which was true, though likely not in the manner Joffrey believed from the grin on his face. “If the city impresses you, _ma dame_, the Red Keep shall be so impressive you may faint,” he bragged. Joffrey leaned toward her, and she repressed a shudder.

“Do not worry, _ma dame_. I will catch you if you fall.” She smiled prettily at him.

“So gallant of you, _mun seignur_. I shall never feel anything but safe in your presence.” His grin widened, and thankfully he cantered off, his sworn-sword Sandor Clegane sending her a hooded glance before following him. Tsonse kept a gentle expression on her face until after the _Reine_ rode past with a guard of her brother and _Chevalier_ Moore before meeting_ Ujän_ Myrcella’s gaze. The princess looked a combination of amused and concerned, so Tsonse kneed her mount closer, as it was impossible for Myrcella to do so, riding side-saddle as she was.

“_Dame_ Myrcella, what is the matter?” Myrcella frowned, and Tsonse was aware of her ladies surrounding the two of them, her guards on the edge.

“_Dame_ Tsonse, I do not know. I simply find myself uneasy.” Tsonse frowned, thinking over her previous observations, and could not find it in herself to blame the other girl.

_Rei_’s Landing was a city on the edge of explosion, and only the willfully ignorant or dangerously oblivious could fail to notice

* * *

Tsonse set aside her drafted letter to Ganžar Toran as a muted knock sounded at her door. She hoped to the trees and earth that Obara was not about to announce Joffrey. Every day, the boy got worse.

Though…she thought with a grimace as she rose, calling for her guard and friend to announce who stood before her door…there were unfortunately worse choices than a cruel boy only two years older.

She hadn’t even had her first moon’s blood, and yet the gazes of men followed her as much as they followed Tieñe, Jonyel, or Sanse. Thankfully, none had yet approached her, her betrothal perhaps being a protection—the one truly welcome gift from her betrothed.

She shivered as she thought of the one man who she doubted would be stopped by that weak bond—_Seignur_ Baelish, the Master of Coin—the man’s eyes followed her uncomfortably, and Tsonse despised the way he stared at her hair when he talked of her mother.

She sighed, pushing the disturbing thoughts out of her head—there was not much more she could do after informing her family and Ganžar Toran—and was standing before the fireplace when Obara announced the absolute last person she had expected.

“_Mun seignur_ Varys. What an unexpected honor,” she said, curtseying deeply, not missing the twinkling eyes of the Master of Whispers. He bowed politely in return, his hands as usual hidden in the long Essosi sleeves held in front of him.

“_Ma dame_ Ŝarqa. I must argue instead that is my honor to finally make your personal acquaintance.” Rather than freezing at the strange weight of his statement, Tsonse tilted her head, looking at him with wide eyes as she sat in her balcony, a tea set on the table before her—one fortuitously placed near enough the kitchens for the sounds to filter through—and asked,

“_Mun seignur_? Whatever reason would you wish to meet me for?’ _Seignur_ Varys chuckled as he joined her, politely ignoring Joryen’s unfriendly gaze on his back. Tsonse smiled up at her youngest half-uncle to reassure him. She knew it wouldn’t work—Joryen could be as bad as Rob when it came to her safety—but she also knew it was unlikely _Seignur_ Varys bore her any harm. If he had, she would likely have been dead before anyone knew to look in his direction. That didn’t mean she trusted him.

The man known in certain circles as the Spider smiled at her as she met his gaze evenly, the summer light bouncing off his bald head.

“_Ma dame_, I am sure you cannot fail to notice people consider you a singular girl, and not just because of who you are to marry.” Her lips thinned, and she dipped her head almost imperceptibly, sipping at her tea to conceal her thoughts.

She had expected the envy and curiosity aimed toward her, but the distaste and cruelty in regard to the Land of Enduring Snow and its people had been more than she had anticipated. Though that may have been naïve of her, considering what Nyengäa Elia had told her of the attitude toward the Torñish. Tsonse was saved from some slurs with her Tully pale skin and her tendency to guard herself from direct sunlight, but her ladies were not nearly so lucky—and even she had been mocked for the tilt of her eyes.

Ice buzzed at her fingers as she set her cup down, reflecting the state of her nerves. She needed to know what Varys wanted, for both her safety and the fulfillment of her own agenda.

“_Seignur_.” She paused, soothing a rousing and agitated Ujän as she smiled with her teeth at the Spider. “Please, do ask of me what you came here for. I am flattered by your attention, but I am curious to know the why of it.” He nodded at her, his smile remaining though his eyes were once again serious.

“_Dame_ Ŝarqa, I will cease wasting our time. You may not be nearly as fond of little birds as I am, but they are quite fond of you. A spider who watches them might ask a wolf if she wishes the same regard he has for his birds.” Tsonse drew in a breath, blinking. None of them had expected such a generous offer, even with her current unlikely ally of Ujän Myrcella.

“A wolf might ask why such an offer when the spider lives in the antlers of the stag and climbs the lion’s mane.” To her surprise, _Seignur_ Varys’ lips thinned, and he leaned forward, his voice low.

“_Ma dame_. Dragons may be mad, but no spider likes careless hosts either.” She frowned again, ignoring Joryen’s uncomfortable shifting. A few silent moments stretched on slowly before she held a hand out over the small table.

“The wolf might think this worth restful nights as long as the spider remembers she is not short of loyal vipers.” His lips twitched, and the twinkle returned to his eyes as he kissed her hand.

“_Dame_ Ŝarqa, I look forward to your day to shine in the court. It was indeed a pleasure.” She quirked a brief, close-lipped smile in return as he rose before remembering something the Master of Whispers might find useful.

“_Seignur_. I would take a closer look at the mockingbird, lest he escapes your net.” Varys frowned at her, clearly considering.

“Unless the fate of the falcon was planned?” He froze, and she could tell he was mentally cursing himself for not considering such earlier. He bowed to her, his eyes dark.

“My thanks, _ma dame_. Good day to you.” She curtseyed, not returning to her desk until Joryen had retreated back to the balcony and Obara had barred the door once more.

Tsonse tapped her quill against her chin thoughtfully. There was much to inform both Ganžar Toran and Myema about.

* * *

Elios Karghalen Martel watched _Princesse_ Myrcella flit around with her brother’s betrothed and her ladies, not looking to his side when his eldest daughter sat down beside him, her closest friend looming over her as he had for decades.

“Elia, sweetling. Why did you come here? You could have stayed safely far away with my grandsons.” She didn’t answer his question directly, instead addressing him with one of her own in Torñish.

“Kepe. What do you see when you look at the court? And don’t tell me what you tell the Council or the Baratheon.” He sighed, trying futilely to relax against the hard wooden chairs of the Capital, and looked around the great hall.

He looked at the red-faced king, whose temper and lechery rivaled his predecessor. He looked at the blonde, haughty, and cold queen who reminded him of Rhaella in only two ways, bringing his attention to first her perpetually lurking and miserable brother, and then her graceful blonde daughter whose sunshine nature was like his granddaughter’s.

A clatter followed by a whimper had him casting eyes on the boy who was truly the son of Aerys in all the ways Rhaegar had not been, though they shared no blood. Robert’s heir elbowed a poor serving man, before stabbing the poor fool in the side with a dinner knife and forgetting him. He shook his head, pitying Yejyer Ŝarq’s daughter. She would not survive Joffrey Baratheon, not wholly, no matter her strength and intelligence.

He continued to watch their surroundings, not answering his daughter, as the food was cleared away in favor of dancing. He saw Liana Ŝarqa in the smile and loose hair of Myerisa Tsasyena as Aurane Waters spun her around. He saw Joanna Lannister with a kinder Tywin in their youth as Lancel Lannister twirled a bright-eyed _Princesse_ Myrcella. He saw long-dead family, friends, allies, and enemies in their cousins, children, and usurpers.

Like he had almost thirty years ago, Elios saw the anger and unhappiness sending their vines throughout the room. He saw the banked fury in Yejyer Ŝarq’s eyes every time a Lannister or Baratheon took Tsonse’s hand, and the wary glances Tyrion and Jaime Lannister sent Robert. He saw the way Petyr Baelish never took his eyes off Tsonse Ŝarqa.

And finally, he turned to Elia, the daughter Loreza had named for him, the daughter who was the perfect balance of himself and his beloved wife to say,

“Too many ghosts, sweetling.” She nodded at him, her face grim.

“She surpasses both Lady Joanna and myself, but that will not save her.” He clasped her hand, and Elia leaned against him as if she was once again a child who had seen less than ten summers.

“Are you here because you will not have another Aerys and Rhaella, or because of the fury in Yejyer Ŝarq’s eyes?” Elia looked down at the fading henna on her hands, the designs of a widowed woman loyal to her dead love before she answered.

“I cannot let the two who sacrificed themselves for my life and my children attempt to survive alone in this city of two-faced lions and stags.” She looked out at the crowd as she spoke, and Elios narrowed his eyes, unsurprised that she would sacrifice herself for the family of the wolf who stole her heart

“She knows?” Elia laughed bitterly, turning to look him with the same tired eyes she’d shown him when he found her on her knees before Liana’s remains in the largest temple of Torñe.

“Tsonse hasn’t been a child since she was eight years old, and you are surprised she knows?” He frowned, knowing Elia wasn’t telling him something about Liana’s niece.

“Elia…” She sighed, her eyes not changing in their dead, angry grief.

“Father, does the spear tip truly not know one of its staves?” He turned in his chair to look at her straight on, and she chuckled tiredly, the sound having no humor.

Then she began to sing the old song of the snow-bird who flew over the mountains to find her lord, and he understood with the suddenness of a book to the face.

“…I have the sudden urge to murder your brother. She has not even seen thirteen summers.” Elia stopped singing with a wry smile.

“You will have to stand in line, Father. Behind myself, Jon Tsasyen, Aszara, and Byenjen.” She picked at the embroidery edging her veil as she shook her head slightly.

“But…it was her idea. She always has been beyond her years.” He blinked and said in West Andaii.

“Mayhaps she will be the _reine_ we need.” Elia nodded, but he was fairly certain they both knew that even if it was so, a mad king was still more than she deserved, and more than she could survive.

Rhaella had been wise and intelligent, and so was his daughter. But where had that gotten them? A beaten, faded woman dead in childbirth and a lady pardoned by the skin of her teeth who had watched the woman she loved die in front of her, pretending her children had died at the same time.

Tsonse Ŝarqa, despite her maturity, was not even half the age they had been in the same situation. She didn’t have a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Petyr/Sansa dynamic feels yucky to you—IT IS SUPPOSED TO! Petyr Baelish is a creepy, obsessive man.  
Tsonse referring to Cersei as Reine rather than the Northron term Ganyetsun is definitely an insult by this point, though of course, Cersei has no idea. Whereas her mental titling of Myrcella with the Northron term for Lady is a sign of respect. 
> 
> What do you guys think? Will my Sansa prove to be the Queen Westeros needs?
> 
> Translations:  
Chevalier = knight (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Ganžar = foremost leader (The Northern Tongue)  
Kepe = father (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ma dame = my lady (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Myema = mom, mama (The Northern Tongue)  
Mun seignur = my lord (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
Princesse = princess (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Rei = king (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Reine = queen (Reach dialect that has found its way into West Andaii)  
Torñe = kingdom (Dornish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Ujän = lady (The Northern Tongue)  
Ulangiri Sumoq = bloody keep (The Northern Tongue)
> 
> Sanse Karghalen = OC; Elios's much younger sister


	10. Honor Is No Weapon To Succeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sarqs settle into the Keep. Stannis, Renly, and Varys have concerns. Yeyjer/Eddard is frustrated. Tsonse/Sansa and Lord Elios learn each other's measure. Robert is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slight bit of a filler chapter, but it feels necessary, as it sets up plot points in the capital.

_Early 299 AC, King’s Landing, the Crownlands // Rei’s Hið_, _Tegor hen Pāletilla_

Varys looked out over the bay, his arms resting on the balcony. He didn’t turn when he heard footsteps approaching, instead waiting for their owner to speak as they came to a stop beside him.

“Mun seignur, how do you fare this fine morning?” Varys looked up with a false smile.

“Seignur Baratheon, good morning.” He made a show of glancing around before raising his brows. “Now, where is your eternal rose?”

Renly Baratheon glared at him out of habit before shaking his head. They both knew Renly was one of the people Varys did more than reluctantly tolerate. Still, Renly _was_ a Baratheon, so Varys did feel as though he must get his jabs in somewhere. The young Storm Lord leaned against the balcony, looking oddly serious.

“Seignur Varys, do you have an inkling as to the reason behind my young niece’s behavior of late?” Varys wondered when Renly had noticed Myrcella’s increasing reticence and distance from her parents. He had his suspicions about the source of the Princesse’s behavior, but her current social crowd only increased his questions. Playing the pointed fool while he thought, Varys said,

“Mun seignur, why would I know of Dame Shireen’s behavior?” He repressed the urge to smile as Renly stiffened, his previously affected relaxation disappearing. To his credit, the younger man recovered quickly, once again slouching against the balcony rail. The Storm Lord really wasn’t as impulsive and frivolous as most saw him. His laughter only rang slightly false as he chuckled before saying,

“Varys. Do not play the fool. You know I was speaking of the princesse.” Varys gifted Renly with a thin-lipped smile.

“Of course, mun seignur. You understand I could only make an educated guess? I am far from in the confidence of our lovely Princesse.” Renly rolled his eyes.

“Of course. Would you care to take luncheon with me?”

“I would be delighted by the honor, Seignor Baratheon.”

* * *

Yejyer stared evenly across the Small Council Table at his fellow councilors. He didn’t trust a one of them, least of all Robert. However, to their credit, not all of them followed the Usurper’s bloody suggestion.

Not for the first time, Yejyer blessed his mother and Barbri for teaching him even a margin of cunning. He also blessed the little gods for his family and allies’ forethought in protecting Elia’s children as he examined the motives and feelings of the men around him.

_Brimwæs_ Waters was from a family of loyalists, and despite his practiced mask, Yejyer could tell the younger man concealed deep fury behind his calm words pointing out the flaw in Robert’s wishes. Varys appeared uneasy, but he couldn’t begin to guess what had the _Eolder_ of Whispers so concerned, and he was unsure he wished to know. _Mæster_ Pycelle looked as petulant as always, and Yejyer had no doubt the old man would report back to whoever his master was as soon as the meeting ended. It was unclear whether Barristan Selmy ever had any sort of expression on his face, but the manner in which he held himself indicated to Yejyer his unease. _Warddjerefa_ Slynt looked—unsurprisingly—far too delighted at the suggestion of bloodshed. Little gods alone knew where the _Eolder_ of Coin was—certainly not in the Ulangiri Sumoq.

The most interesting reactions however, Yejyer thought as he talked Robert down from the idea of murdering Elia’s children (again), were from the Usurper’s two brothers. It wasn’t unusual for Stannis to be glaring at Robert, but Yejyer had noticed the _Prinze_ of _Zaldrīzesdōron_ appeared even more furious than usually so at his elder brother. He reluctantly made a note to have one of his Children discover what had the middle Baratheon brother so disgruntled. Renly, on the other hand, seemed to have a rapport with Varys that had been invisible to Yejyer until now, and appeared more thoughtful than in agreement with his elder brother.

After Robert tired of fulfilling the duties of a Ganžar—which was soon after his outburst—Yejyer dismissed the council. He walked from the rooms sighing, rubbing his nose in an attempt to head off an ache in his head, though he doubted his success in doing so. This entire godsforsaken city was a headache.

Yejyer tensed but did not startle when measured footsteps joined him. Instead, he looked to his side to cast tired eyes on the most urgent reason as to why Robert should desist with his obsession of destroying the last remnants of the Targaryens.

“Good evening, _Prinze_ Elios. How may I aid you?” The elder man, still going strong though he was of Yejyer’s father’s generation, and a grandfather many times over, smiled thinly, the expression not reaching his eyes.

“Should I not be asking that of you, Teghünmariz Ŝarq, for as many times as you have saved mine daughter and her children?” Yejyer frowned, the thundercloud of his headache beginning to break.

“I only stick to honor, _Prinze_, a trait which I recognize is in rare supply here in the capital.” Elia’s father chuckled drily, the sound holding nothing of humor.

“Very well, Teghünmariz. Very well. May I then extend an invitation for dinner from mine household to yours?” Yejyer blinked but didn’t falter in his footsteps as they came to a more public arena of the Sumoq, off the Throne Room.

“I would be honored to accept upon hearing the time and place, _Prinze_ Elios.”

* * *

Sanse Karghalen watched her brother and her ariña with curious eyes. She knew with absolute certainty they had never before met in person, and she could have sworn—until today—that they’d never exchanged letters either.

Oh, she was far from surprised that they had such a fluid rapport—how could it be otherwise, with Torñe’s closeness with the Land of Enduring Snow?—but the dynamic between them had something further behind it.

And for those paying attention as she was, there was no missing the eye Elia was keeping upon them, even as she drew the for once retiring Talenapastere Myrcella into a friendly conversation with a lonely and tired-looking Teghünmariz Yejyer.

As she continued to watch Elios and Tsonse, Sanse wondered if their dynamic had anything to do with how her ariña used her small court. Somehow, Sanse doubted that most people of their rank were aware of the darker side of politics.

But it had been something Tsonse had been aware of for years, just as Elios had his own, secret, orders from Sanse’s nephew. Her ariña may have had no orders that she was aware of, but she did, without fail, every two weeks, send letters with a raven none but her were allowed to touch.

* * *

Tsonse was used to eyes upon her. Even before her betrothal to Joffrey, she was the eldest legitimate daughter of the Qamjin Žengos, and a close companion to both Nyengäa and Myema, two of the most influential women in Tsasyetsbye Yetsbyegoi (the other being Byemuŝga, of course). Naturally, she was closely observed. Though both amused and irritated by the close eyes of Nyengäa and Sanse, neither of their eyes worried her. Neither did the occasional deep glance from the direct of her Avestsa. However, despite her fascination with Žengos Elios and his conversation, Tsonse couldn’t miss the uneasiness of her two bodyguards for the day—Joryen and Žengos Rus.

Finally, she shifted slightly in her seat—Ujän Myrcella was the only courtier in attendance, but one could never be too careful—so that she still faced Žengos Elios, but could meet the eyes of her half-uncle and foster-brother. Žengos Elios raised a brow, but continued to carry on their conversation as if nothing had happened, much to her internal delight. Torñish servants brought in luncheon, a natural lull in conversation arriving with them. Tsonse knew she had no hope of convincing her guards to sit, but Joryen only gave her a fond eye-roll as she proffered a plate. He cautiously avoided the spicier choices, much to her amusement. With a blink, and a glance toward Joryen, Žengos Rus followed her half-uncle’s example. Tsonse heard a soft chuckle, and turned back toward Žengos Elios, still holding out the plate. He smiled, shaking his head, leaning forward.

“You are simply full of contradictions, ñơna ariña. I find myself saddened we have not met face to face earlier,” he said softly, tearing a piece of flatbread to dip in the bowl of chicken curry. She smiled back, placing the plate on the edge of the table closest to the wall behind them before dipping her piece of flatbread in the spicier lemon lamb ginger curry, sighing with satisfaction as she swallowed.

“Are we not all so?” she asked rhetorically before sipping at her sweetened lemon juice.

Behind her to the side, Joryen coughed significantly. She ignored him, particularly as he had the courtesy to hide his wry amusement behind a large piece of spiced flatbread. Žengos Elios narrowed his eyes, and handed her his wine goblet.

She observed it closely, though she doubted he had malicious intent either as the father of Nyengäa or the northern spymaster of his princely son. Still, he very well may wish to test her. Somehow—she was almost certain—he had learned her identity as one of his “birds”.

Tsonse leaned back in her chair, and sniffed at the wine. She blinked, her eyes watering.

“My žengos, is this a fire pepper wine?” Her Nyengäa’s father dipped his fingers in the small water bowl before steepling them to a point as he considered her.

“A close guess, izeskan hantēz,” he said, nodding for her to take a sip. She braved it, primarily to cover nerves. She was almost certain he meant her no harm, but that by no means followed that he would allow her to continue her role.

“It is a sunbright pepper wine.” She swallowed the smoky wine quickly to avoid a coughing fit, and set the goblet down on the cloth-covered table with a thump.

“I believed no one was allowed to drink it who was not of Torñe,” Tsonse said quietly once she recovered her voice. _And that only in the palaces were non-Martels permitted to drink it_, she didn’t add. Žengos Elios was _definitely_ testing her.

The former Prinze-Consort of Torñe smirked at her, the expression not meeting his eyes. He made no move to take back his wine, instead pushing it closer to her. Tsonse stiffened, but refused to look away. Finally, he sighed, and looked up at her guards.

“Out of our hearing, the both of you,” Joryen and Žengos Rus shuffled nervously on their feet. Žengos Elios repeated himself, his voice cracking quietly in a clear order. Out of the corner of her eye, Tsonse saw both her guards glaring as they backed unobtrusively away. She looked expectantly—and pointedly—at Žengos Elios, but he merely snapped his fingers for the servants to clear away their meal.

Only after they’d brought honey-drizzled fruits and sugared flower petals, as well as a pitcher of juice, did he say anything. The goblet of wine remained. He held out an apple slice. She snatched it and bit into it, only to find her teeth slightly stuck together by the honey.

“What, by mother desert and all her sons did you and my son intend by your machinations?” He asked. She cocked her head, and he groaned lightly, his knuckles blanching as he tightened his grip on the glass-stemmed chalice of juice he was holding. “Do _not_ play demure, Ariña Tsonse. In this place, you cannot afford it.” Her lips tightened, but she abandoned the innocent pretense.

“If you are requesting my reasons behind my choice, ñơna žengos, they were power and the desire to find myself useful.” She paused, braving another sip of wine to clear away the cloying sweetness of the fruit. “If however, you wish to know why I am here? You know very well I had no choice. At this hour in time, all I am trying is to prevent as many deaths as I can.”

He sighed, looking abruptly tired.

“Worthy goals, izeskan hantēz. But I will not have another queen suffer. Not even if she is useful in this cesspit we call a capitol.” Tsonse set the goblet down with a suspicious look, leaning forward.

“No.”

“No? But you have not even heard what I wished to propose.” She leaned forward.

“I do not need to. I will not marry your younger son, nor either of your grandsons. Neither will I partner your granddaughter. Most importantly, I will not abandon our family in this death’s den.” He raised a brow questioningly.

“Our family?”

“I am, and will always be a Ŝarq, with all that entails. But the Martels shed blood for us as much as we did for you.”

“Hmm.” He tapped the edge of the table thoughtfully. “You will not agree to a Torñish betrothal?”

“As long as the lives of yours and mine are dependent on the goodwill of a Baratheon, no. I will not.”

“Your sense of duty is impressive.”

“Not any more than your son’s. Or yours.”

* * *

Despite being reassured that at least Robert’s daughter wasn’t irredeemable—and was apparently close with his own eldest daughter—and learning of Aria’s progress in Torñe, Yejyer left the gathering unsettled. He had noticed Žengos Elios’s conference with Tsonse, Elia’s concern, and that his daughter’s guards were out of earshot.

Yejyer sighed as he watched Tsonse skip ahead with Tieñe and Princesse Myrcella, their guards trailing behind them. As much as he wished to confront his daughter—or Elia’s father—he knew better. Tsonse had begun keeping her own counsel years before.

Oh, he was fully aware his daughter loved him. But he was also fully aware that she confided in Elia, Barbri, or Jon. Sometimes even Aszara or Rob. But not him. Not for the most serious of matters that concerned her. Yejyer wished he knew how he’d failed her. He always seemed to fail women when it was most important.

“Yejyer. What has such a dark look on your face? I would have thought Torñish food and people would have put you in fine fettle.” He shook his head noncommittally, but couldn’t help glancing ahead at his daughter and her companions.

Beside him, Elia sighed, placing a hand on his forearm.

“Brother. Tsonse has always been older than her years. I—and Byenjen—have long been of the opinion it stems from her powers.” He grimaced, and she patted his arm as she continued.

“I understand why you blame yourself. But I also understand why you would seek to protect her for as long as possible.” She sighed. “However, you do not produce children content with muddling around in obscurity and bland safety.” His grimace deepened further, but he couldn’t deny her point.

Artur spoke, startling both of them.

“You can always worry, Teghünmariz Ŝarq. I understand it is the prerogative of a parent. But keeping your daughter safe would only stifle her. I believe you know this.”

“I do. I do not like it.”

“You are not required to.”

* * *

Stannis Baratheon had many questions. And many frustrations. As usual, most revolved around his brother(s), and some around his wife. He ground his teeth as he began the long stalk back to his rooms. Naturally, Robert wanted him as far away as possible while still in the Mele Gaomagon.

Today’s meeting of the Small Council had been bad, proving once again that Robert had no grasp of politics. None. It was almost an achievement in itself, he acknowledged angrily, to turn so many regions and nobles against him at once. The only happy one at that table had been Slynt, and that was _never_ comforting.

Stannis winced as pain shot up his face in his bones, and attempted to relax his jaw as he mulled over one of his many questions, one that had been bothering him since the Northrons arrived in Rei’s Hið. Robert had always waxed so fondly and eloquently of Seignur Eddard Ŝarq to the extent that Stannis—and he ventured Renly as well—was almost overcome with the urge to soundly punch his brother.

But instead of the exclusive camaraderie he had expected between the two elder men, Yejyer—not Eddard, he’d been firmly corrected—spent as little time around Robert as possible, socializing out of the keep, either with the party that had arrived with him, or the Dornish. When he _did_ interact with Robert, his distaste and hostile tension was obvious.

Stannis shook his head slightly as he crossed the gardens.

Those who had accompanied Seignur Yejyer were interesting in their composition as well. Of the nobles, neither his wife or mistress had accompanied him; instead including Elia Martel, Sansa Karghalen, Arthur Deñe and Tyene Arizma; not to mention the assortment of lesser Northron and Dornish nobles. One of Dame Sansa’s guards even had the look of Barbrey Dostyen.

Stannis was unsure he fancied the idea of so many Dornish aligned with the North, particularly with the close friendship between Myrcella and Sansa. _What_ were the two most distant kingdoms planning? _Had_ Robert even been thinking when he ordered Yejyer to act as his Hand?

Finally reaching his chambers, Stannis dropped his head tiredly into his hands, his head aching with the complications the new Hand and his people had brought with him.

“Papa, papa! Djeswor Myrcella has invited me to the next tea she hosts with Dame Tsonse. She promised it would be small as well!” Stannis held back a groan, unwilling to crush Shireen’s all too infrequent delight. He sat down in a chair as his daughter flitted around the parlor while Davos watched in bemusement.

He cleared his throat roughly to obtain her attention. Shireen turned to him; her face bright.

“Oh, may I go? Please?”

“Of course,” he gritted out, “You cannot refuse the princesse, even if she is your djeswor. I will insist a guard and one of Davos’ boys accompany you.” Shireen dashed into his arms, grinning wildly, and he awkwardly embraced her in return, shooting a cold glare at Davos when his right-hand man smirked.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stannis’ heart warmed. Despite the cruel jibes his daughter still found here at court, she had blossomed and brightened in a way that made him even more certain removing her from her mother’s influence had been wise. Even the thought of Selyse made him sigh.

Stannis attempted to change the direction of his thoughts to something less unpleasant.

Sadly for his peace of mind, Renly burst into his rooms with barely an announcement a moment or two later.

“Brother dear! How fare you this fine day?” Stannis glared at him from his comfortable chair, while Shireen giggled fondly at her uncle, her face bright.

“Evening, Uncle Renly! Have you been invited to Dame Tsonse’s next tea?” Renly swept Shireen into a tight hug, the motion illustrating one of the few reasons Stannis didn’t totally detest his younger brother.

“I have indeed, darling Princesse Shireen.” Setting her down, Renly sobered, immediately sparking Stannis’ suspicion.

“Perhaps we can gossip tomorrow—I needs must discuss some matters from this Small Council with your father.” Stannis stiffened, and Shireen grumbled as Davos took her further into the Zaldrīzesdōron-claimed chambers. Once he was reasonably assured of his daughter being out of earshot, Stannis turned to Renly.

“What is it?” he snapped at his brother. Oddly, Renly didn’t snark back, sending a chill down Stannis’ spine.

“We need to talk.” Stannis leaned forward, frowning.

“About Robert?” Renly made an odd motion, half nod and half shrug.

“Aye, but he is not our only matter of concern, dear brother.” He hesitated, fiddling briefly with the sword at his hip before continuing. “Stannis. How secure are your chambers?” Stannis stiffened, pressing his lips together.

“My balcony looks over one of the fighting yards. Will that do to disguise our speech?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is probably obvious by this point, the timeline is a little wonky. But wonky in the “I need to spread things out” rather than the time crunching prevalent in the TV series. So if the timing seems off, it probably is, and I am probably aware.   
Considering how I’ve already characterized Yejyer/Eddard in this story, it seemed only appropriate to continue the trend of him not being completely oblivious or optimistically honorable. Don’t worry, he still has his own strict code of honor that doesn’t match the rest of Westeros, but Lyarra and Barbri have ensured more pragmaticism and wariness than in canon. I like Yejyer, and I want to decrease his chances of dying.   
There is NOTHING romantic between Elios and Tsonse/Sansa. They have a weird dynamic built from the fact that 1) he sees both Rhaella and his daughter in her, 2) she is—in case it wasn’t obvious by now—one of his agents, 3) he admires her skills, and 4) he wants to see what her motivations are/where and how far she’ll go.   
Why is Oberin/Oberyn on the table, but Doran/Toran is not? At this point, Mellario and Toran are still married—though separated. 
> 
> Translations:   
Ariña = lady (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Avestsa = father (The Northern Tongue)  
Byemuŝga = grandmother (The Northern Tongue)  
Brimwæs = lit. 'sea-king'; captain (West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Eolder = overseer (West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Tsasyetsbye Yetsbyegoi = The Land of Enduring Snow; The North (The Northern Tongue)  
Dame = lady (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Ganžar = chief, king (The Northern Tongue)  
Djeswor = cousin (West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Izeskan hantēz = little snow bird (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Mæster = master, scholar (West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Mele Gaomagon = Red Keep (Valyrian loanword)  
Myema = mom (The Northern Tongue)  
Mun Seignur = my lord (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Nyengäa = aunt (The Northern Tongue)  
ñơna = my, mine (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Princesse = princess (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Prinze = Prince (Reach dialect that has seeped into West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Rei’s Hið = King's Landing (a combination of West Andaii and Reach dialect)  
Talenapastere = lit. 'daughter of the traitor'; princess (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Teghünmariz = the holder of a landed noble seat (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Torñe = Dorne (Torñish Rhoyne-Valyrian)  
Qamjin Žengos = First/Paramount Lord (The Northern Tongue)  
Ulangiri Sumoq = Bloody Keep (The Northern Tongue)  
Warddjerefa = captain of a guard (West Andaii/The Common Tongue)  
Zaldrīzesdōron = Dragonstone (Valyrian loanword)  
Žengos = lord (The Northern Tongue)


	11. Falcons, Trout, and A Houseless Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A time skip backwards to set up what's going on in the Riverlands and the Vale. Lysa and Catelyn catch up at their father's home.

Mid 298 AC, Riverrun, the Riverlands // Asharinnan, Tedjorheŋ Kelbar

There were many things that Catelyn Stark had not expected when she saw her sister in person for the first time in many years. Namely, she had not expected that Lysa’s first reaction upon being let into their father’s presence would be to smack him across the face while swearing at him.

“…turncoat, disloyal idiot!” Lysa finished while Edmure and Catelyn watched her in wide-eyed shock.

=Out of the corner of her eye, Catelyn observed Lysa’s entourage, noticing Unkle Brynden’s smirk, and the small, very Tully little girl in his arms. She shifted on her feet uncomfortably, the babe at this point making it difficult to stand, even though she was barely showing.

Lysa turned, finished with her tirade, and her eyes landed on Catelyn. Clicking her tongue disapprovingly, identical glares aimed at Edmure and their father, she crossed quickly to her sister. Tucking one of her arms into Catelyn’s, she encouraged her to rest her weight on the slightly younger woman.

“Cate, we have so much to catch up on! Why don’t we speak in the godswood while Seignur Tully and Unkle Brynden discuss how my party will be quartered?” She didn’t allow Catelyn enough time to respond as she propelled them out of the Great Hall, the children in the party following them after a quick, questioning look at Brynden.

Once his nieces were out of sight, Brynden Tully sighed and shook his head—though his eyes were twinkling with amusement—before handing the little girl he was holding to Nestor Roice.

“Follow them, would you, _nua aqsiu_?” He said under his breath. The lord settled the girl on his hip with the air of an experienced father before elbowing the old knight gently.

“Was that even in question?” Brynden chuckled, making a shooing motion, then turned back toward his brother with a sigh.

* * *

Lysa appeared much happier than Catelyn would have ever expected for a woman married until a year ago to a man of an age with their (deceased) grandfather.

“Now, all of you, this is your Swaira Catelyn. Cate, your nieces and nephew: Brynda, Rowen, and Albara.” Catelyn nodded, not yet up to words in the face of her sister’s happy chatter, and nursing a bit of resentment for Lysa’s clear happiness.

Lysa paused as they both heard the tread of a man’s feet. A bright smile lit up Lysa’s face as a Northron-looking man made his way along the path, carrying the Tully-appearing girl capably in his arms, trailed by another girl, this one about the age of Jonelle Cerwyn.

Catelyn watched with bemused curiosity as both the man and the girl grinned at Lysa, while the babe in his arms burbled happily. Lysa turned back to her as the three entered their little clearing.

“Cate, may I introduce my youngest, Jeyne. Holding her is _Aqsiu_ Nestor Royce, and his daughter _Rina_ Myranda Royce.” Catelyn nodded shortly, forcing her lips upwards in a smile she didn’t feel.

“An honor, mun seignur, ma dame,” she said, bowing her head in a polite nod. “I would rise, but…” she trailed off significantly. Dame Myranda turned her bright smile on Catelyn, almost rushing forward in clear—if bewildering—excitement.

“_Sojaisto_ Catelyn! It is so wonderful to finally meet you in person—Mona Lysa has told me so many stories about you!” She came to a stop directly before Catelyn’s perch on the stone bench. Catelyn stared up at her in confused shock. After a few moments of silence, Dame Myranda’s smile faltered.

Catelyn looked away, some unfamiliar, darkened feeling tugging at her throat, only to have her gaze land on her sister and the girl’s father. Both Lysa and Seignur Royce were staring at her with furrowed brows, their emotions unclear. Catelyn’s attention snapped back to Dame Myranda as the girl began to speak again, this time with a hesitant tone.

“_Rina_ Ŝarqa, have, have you not read _Mona_ Lysa’s letters? She swore to me that she explained everything in her letters.” Catelyn frowned. She had received few letters from Lysa in the approximately decade and a half since they had both married. None of them had mentioned Myranda Royce, and she had not known about her sister’s middle two children until this introduction.

“I did, Myra.” Both Catelyn and Dame Myranda looked up at Lysa’s sharp tone. Her sister sighed, picking up Albara as the small girl pulled significantly at her skirts. “It appears the worries of myself, _Aqsiu_ Arryn, and your father were indeed warranted,” she said, adjusting her fussing daughter on her hip.

“Lysa?” Catelyn frowned at her little sister, more confused than ever. Lysa shot a significant glance at Dame Myranda, who glided over to take Jeyne from her father.

“Nestor, clear the godswood, would you?” Lysa squeezed the lord’s arm gently as she made her request. Seignur Royce smiled softly at her, nodding, and pulled her into an embrace before he left to do her bidding. Lysa stared after him wistfully as Brynda and his daughter giggled, while Catelyn…Catelyn attempted not to gape as several pieces came together in her mind.

“_Lysa_!” She hissed after recovering her powers of speech. Her sister turned with an almost audible snap.

“Not yet.” Catelyn sputtered, but her sister only stared at her evenly, with a stern gaze that brought Eddard uncomfortably to mind. She subsided with ill-grace, holding herself stiffly, until Seignur Royce returned at an unhurried lope, wiping down his blade. He looked up at Lysa’s question.

“A mockingbird, was it?” He nodded, his face twisting in a distinctly dark way, once again reminding Catelyn of her estranged husband.

“Aye, a few of Baelish’s ears. Some of them even wearing Tully colors.” Catelyn hissed out a shocked breath, but Lysa merely waved the words away after a brief wince.

“Unkle and I shall deal with any fuss from my father.” He sheathed his sword, finally finished cleaning it.

“I have no doubt of that, _nua lisa_.” With some wrangling, he took Albara from Lysa’s hip, Catelyn’s niece pouting before he whispered something in her ear. Albara’s face lit up, and she kissed him on the cheek as he chuckled, bouncing her lightly. Her heart hurt as she was reminded of her own babes, all but one she will not further raise, let alone see more than briefly for the rest of her life. Not for the first time, Catelyn cursed both her husband and herself, sparing a few, brief, angry thoughts for the three women who were first in his heart.

She jumped when distracted from her gloomy thoughts by Lysa clearing her throat.

“Cate. To rule things out, would your husband keep your letters?” Catelyn shook her head vehemently.

“Certainly not. Read them, mayhaps, but not keep them from me entirely.” And the one thing her husband had always been with her was honest. Even when she’d wished he wasn’t.

Lysa sighed, looking extremely tired as she crossed her arms.

“I feared that would be the case.” Catelyn stared at her sister, uneasy, but still not quite comprehending. Before Lysa could continue, Brynda stepped out of her mother’s shadow, wearing a stubborn expression on her face, a face that looked much like Catelyn’s faded memories of her own mother.

“_Mona_. Let me tell her.” Lysa gave her eldest an exasperated look that gradually softened.

“Bryn. You understand _I_ am your mother, not the other way around?” Brynda briefly smiled in a way that brought to mind Unkle Brynden’s smirks.

“Of course, _Mona_. But I have as much right to tell this story as you.” Lysa sighed again, waving a hand.

“Very well, Bryn.” Catelyn’s eldest niece nodded at her mother in thanks before straightening and clasping her hands in a manner that was strangely familiar.

“Swaira Catelyn, we must begin two years ago. Until little Jeyne was born, we—Randa, _Qebsha_, Seignur Nestor, and _Mona_—lived in the Tower of the Hand. For likely obvious reasons, Rowen and Albara lived in the Eyrie under the care of Seignur Nestor’s son, Albar.”

“My apologies, niece. _Qebsha_?” Brynda’s smile flickered again, lighting her face. She truly should have lordlings and even settled lords beating down her door—perhaps she did already.

“It is North Valyrian for father, my aunt.” Catelyn nodded, wondering absently—and then with a flicker of pain—whether her husband knew anything of North Valyrian. She herself had only ever learned enough Old Valyrian for poetry.

“What changed, niece of mine?” She asked, hoping to distract herself. Brynda sobered again.

“Somehow, the entire keep learned that _Qebsha_ intended to name Jeyne his heir.”

“_What_? If he was going to name a woman, then why, why not name you?” Brynda waved a hand almost dismissively, almost distracting Catelyn from her sister’s brief flinch. She frowned, the uneasiness inside her growing stronger.

“You will see, Swaira Catelyn. Some in the keep made nothing of it, such as the Dornish and Reachmen. Even the Valemen and Rivermen in the capital were little bothered. The Westermen laughed, following the lead of the Reine. The Rei was briefly bemused, then looked at _Qebsha_ with sympathy and understanding in his eyes. He was a bit colder to _Mona_ after that. All in all, however, despite the fact that it was not supposed to get out yet, the revelation caused little fuss. Except in one case.” She paused, looking back at Lysa, who nodded, her face dark.

Catelyn’s frown deepened.

“Brynda. What is it? _Who_ was upset?” Her niece sighed.

“The Eolder of the Coin, _Bealdor_ Baelish.” Something clicked in Catelyn’s mind, and her mouth dropped open. She observed her niece more carefully, seeing Brynda’s green eyes that held not a hint of Tully blue, and auburn hair that was darker—just barely—than Catelyn’s own.

“That story? It was _true_?” She rose from her seat and stalked to her sister, aware that Brynda and Dame Myranda were hovering behind her. Lysa flinched again, and pursed her lips, blowing out a long breath.

“Do _not_ judge me Cate. I was seventeen years and infatuated with him. You _knew_ that. I know you did. And,” she held up a warning finger, “you have no ground to do so. You slept with Brandon the same night I did with Petyr.” There was a hitch in breath from Seignur Royce, which both sisters ignored. Catelyn glared at her sister, but Lysa continued.

“Jon was the one who prevented father from making me drink moon tea, and Unkle from kinslaying. Do you think he _really_ wanted to marry a child? Because _that_ is what I was. No, he saw that I would be miserable, and likely dead if I stayed in father’s house. That is why we married before you. I didn’t thank him at first. I didn’t thank him for years for sending me to _Runstæn_.” She paused to breath, and Seignur Royce freed a hand to squeeze her shoulder.

“Cate. Our father would have given me moon tea. I was five moons with child. _Five moons_. Jon, on the other hand, sent me to _Runstæn_, where Rhaena Waynewood, wife to Yohn Royce, finished my education on being a great lady. And when Jon returned, he claimed Brynda as his own. So, sister, we both presented a bastard babe to a Seignur Premir. The _only_ difference is that yours deserved your husband’s seat regardless. And that you never admitted it to your husband.” Catelyn slapped her sister across the face. Lysa reeled back, being caught by Rowen as Seignur Royce shouted.

Once her sister had regained her feet, she put a restraining hand on her paramour’s forearm.

“I suppose I deserved that one. I _was_ trying to spark your temper, Cate. I…suggest that you not react to other such accusations that way. I merely made a guess.” Catelyn’s cheeks were hot with mortification as she ignored all the glares being shot her way, and gritted out one word:

“Why?” Lysa briefly fiddled with her hair pins before answering.

“Sister mine, in this world, knowledge is power. Are you ready to keep listening? And to stop looking at my children—and any other natural children—as if they are mud on your slippers?”

“But the septas—”

“Horse shit, and you know it, Cate. Answer me.” Catelyn gaped at her for a long few moments. Lysa met her eyes with a cool stare. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she nodded, slowly and reluctantly.

“Good,” Lysa said firmly. “Our foster-brother had decided if he couldn’t have me, then, well, the girl he strongly suspected to be his own would succeed Jon as ruler of the Eyrie, even if she had to marry one of Denys’ boys. That appeased him despite my not giving him the time of day. But Jeyne upset that balance. Her being named heir upset it even more.” She sighed, her face darkening. Despite her still present anger and frustration Catelyn had to ask:

“What happened?”

“Poison attempts on _Qebsha_, Seignur Nestor, and Jeyne.” Brynda’s voice was cold as she spoke up. Catelyn spun around, feeling her eyes widen. She tried something. Something she wouldn’t have just a few moments ago.

“Niece, why did you call my good brother ‘father’ if you knew he was not truly so?” Brynda gave her a blank look, but something flickered behind the expression as she said flatly,

“Petyr Baelish is merely my sire. My _father_ is the man who dandled me on his knee, taught me everything I wanted to know, let everyone assume Rowen and Albara were his by another woman, and didn’t touch my mother until she asked.” Catelyn didn’t have a single word to muster in response.

As all the words her niece had just said sank in, Catelyn realized something.

“I understand why you would all be sent back to the Eyrie. And why Seignur Jon would remain in Rei’s Hið. But Lysa, if the poison failed…?” She trailed off; certain she was missing something.

“…then how and why did Jon die?” her sister finished, once again looking exhausted. “We don’t know for certain, but I suspect Petyr had a hand in it. He has as many men as Varys has birds. There’s no other reason that some of my letters never reached you. Thank the gods I wrote in River Runes.” Catelyn shivered.

“…why did you tell me all this?” She asked finally, no longer shivering, but with a chill still icing her spine.

“Because we need more eyes. And you always were cleverer than me when not falling into your prejudices, Cate.” She stiffened, but only said,

“What do you want me to do? I cannot call on my husband.” Lysa shared another look with Seignur Royce.

“Raise your next child in the Eyrie, Cate. And help me and my family discover Petyr’s secrets and tear. him. down.” She thought for several minutes, forcing herself to push past her initial reactions.

Then, she bowed to the lord, his daughter, her nieces, and her nephew, and pulled Lysa into a hug.

“I am sorry. To all of you.” Then she pulled back from her sister, who was staring at her as if they’d never before laid eyes on each other, hands gripping Lysa’s forearms.

“Yes, Lysa. I will come with you. I will help you discover what Baelish is concealing, and why your husband died. I swear so in the name of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asharinnan = River Run (from the Riverland Dialect)  
Bealdor = lord, master (River Andaii)  
Dame = lady (Reach Dialect loanword into West Andaii)  
Eolder = overseer (West Andaii)  
Mona = mom (North Valyrian)  
Nua asqiu = my lord (North Valyrian)  
Nua lisa = my beautiful (North Valyrian)  
Qebsha = father (North Valyrian)  
Rei’s Hið = King's Landing (Reach Dialect loanword and West Andaii)  
Rina = lady (North Valyrian)  
Runstæn = Runestone (River Andaii)  
Seignur = lord (Reach Dialect loanword into West Andaii)  
Seignur Premir = First Lord (Reach Dialect loanword into West Andaii)  
Sojaisto = aunt (North Valyrian)  
Swaira = aunt (from the Riverland Dialect)  
Tedjorheŋ Kelbar = Riverlands (West Andaii-flavored Valyrian)
> 
> I did not plan to have Catelyn play a significant role in this story, but here we are. She and Ned/Yejyer are not getting back together though. Also, Hoster is clearly an asshole. He is another of the characters I find profoundly irredeemable.   
When used by Vale characters in this chapter, seignur is primarily affectionate rather than official. When used by Catelyn, it is simply a title.   
The way names are spelled has to do with it being from Catelyn’s viewpoint. She uses what she considers the “proper” versions of names.   
I played with the timeline of Robert’s Rebellion a bit, in order to prevent Hoster from having time to force Lysa into drinking moon tea.  
I made River Runes up; they’re from the lost language of the Riverlands. Only the Lord Paramount and his oldest houses understand them. Each River Lord teaches them to his children once they’re able to keep secrets; usually at around age ten.   
Who thinks that Lysa and Cat are going to discover more than they expected? Anyone?


	12. Weaving Webs and Feeding Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert goes on his hunt while Myrcella and Tsonse hold a tea. Tragedy occurs, and plotters make plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts about two weeks after the end of Chapter 10

_Early 299 AC, King’s Landing, the Crownlands // Rei’s Hið, Tegor hen Pāletilla_

Myrcella observed the members of their tea carefully from under lowered eyes as she sipped from her cup. Each table was headed by someone supporting and protecting their interests. Each hostess was carefully drawing out their guests, and only the highest-ranking had been granted a seat with herself and Tsonse. Setting her cup down, Myrcella couldn’t keep herself from smiling as she watched Garlan Tyrell fumble his way through a flirtation with her elder second cousin, Rosalyn Lannister.

“Cosine Myrcella? What is so amusing?” Myrcella turned to her left, smiling at yet another cousin. She leaned into Thirin, and whispered,

“Look over at the table Dame Jonyel is hosting. Observe Chevalier Tyrell and Dame Rosalyn.” Thirin began giggling straight after watching Garlan prompt Rosalyn to slap him with her handkerchief for approximately the sixth time. It took her Baratheon cousin several moments to recover her equilibrium, and required several sips of tea and a jam tart. Pretty dark blue eyes still watering slightly, Thirin asked shakily, “Do you believe he’ll ever succeed?” Myrcella tilted her head, observing Rosalyn’s expressions as she reacted to Chevalier Garlan’s continual flubs.

“Perhaps. Rosalyn is clearly entertained by his behavior; she is only rebuking him for propriety’s sake.” Thirin frowned, looking quickly back and forth between Myrcella and Rosalyn. “I must ask, cosine…how can you tell?” Myrcella made a noncommittal sound, and bit into a quince jelly tart. Thirin persisted; her brows furrowed in concentration.

“Myrcella, cosine, how did you learn to observe so well?” Myrcella cut off a bitter laugh, her gaze falling onto Tsonse, who was currently making her rounds about the party, skillfully trading off different escorts.

* * *

Tsonse smiled up at Žengos Baratheon, and nodded politely to _Chevalier_ Loras Tyrell before returning her attention to her main escort.

“_Mun seignur_, it is a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance.” The young lord of Jelmāzmamōris raised a brow, though he was smiling in return.

“Oh? I would have thought otherwise, _ma dame_ Ŝarqa. I cannot imagine either your father or your betrothed have much good to say about a rascal such as myself.” She hid a laugh behind her hand as they walked, but didn’t fail to notice his correct pronunciation of her House name.

“Perhaps not, _mun seignur_ Baroddion. However, your nieces have nothing but good to say of you and your _Chevalier_ Tyrell.” Žengos Baroddion’s hand clenched briefly over hers, and _Chevalier_ Tyrell gave her a sharp glance, but her continual bright smile seemed to appease—if uneasily—the both of them. Still, the lord Baroddion gave her a considering look as he said,

“Why then, I cannot doubt your judgment, can I? As neither of my nieces are ever wrong.” She had to giggle at that—he was practically inviting her to—and he joined her in a chuckle before sobering as they approached the table holding Ganjuä Stannis and Žengos Varys. He glanced over at the table where Ujän Myrcella was holding court with Princesse Thirin before looking back down at Tsonse.

“_Ma dame_, may I trust you to have true friendship in mind with my darling girls?” He asked in barely a whisper. She blinked up at him, but quickly recovered, gracing him with a shallow curtsey as she said, equally quietly,

“Of course, _mun seignur_. They are sweet and bright—I could not ask for any better friends in the Court.” _Or any more vulnerable_, she didn’t add. From the way his gaze darkened as he relinquished her to his brother, however, she didn’t doubt that he had caught her implied meaning. Tsonse bobbed a polite curtsey to Žengos Varys, who gave her a deep nod, before taking the arm proffered by the _Prinze_ of Zaldrīzesdōron.

“_Mun seignur_,” she said, her eyes demurely lowered. The middle Baroddion brother might not be much for courtesies himself, but he appreciated them in others. He cleared his throat as she unobtrusively directed them around the edges of the hedged lawn, wishing to stretch her legs for a while longer.

“Ujän Ŝarqa. I find myself impressed by a girl, who at the age of barely thirteen years, can both make my brother serious and earn the respect of Seignur Varys.” Tsonse stiffened, muttering under her breath,

“You are well-educated, _mun seignur_.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed.

“Merely respectful. It is obvious to me how close you are with Torne, and how little love your kingdoms bear Baroddions. I enjoy being alive, and I would prefer my family do so as well.” Tsonse pressed her lips together as she glanced around unhurriedly, relieved to observe only loyal guards within earshot. Her fingers buzzed with frost as she glanced coolly up at the middle Baroddion.

“Two pieces of advice, _mun seignur_. The Lannisters have lion cubs everywhere. Second, remove your brother’s bastards from the capital, and legitimize one of them.” Stanis Baroddion blinked at her, finally nodding slowly as he brought her to Žengos Elios.

“Good health to you, Ujän Ŝarqa. I will take your suggestions under consideration.” She smiled at him as she took the seat Žengos Elios had pulled out for her.

“My thanks, _mun seignur_. To you as well.” He nodded abruptly, and headed back to his table.

Žengos Elios gave her a wry look, and slung her his arm around her as he said,

“And what are you planning, my daughter?” She returned the look, still unsure what to think of the endearment he had begun calling her after their…eventful luncheon several weeks prior.

“I am merely growing my network of allies, Tsusga. Surely there is no harm in that?” He sighed, giving her a rather unimpressed look.

“And I am certain that is the only thing you are planning,” he said drily, while the table—composed of her half-relations and his granddaughters—laughed quietly.

* * *

Dame Tsonse had just sat back down at Myrcella’s right when a royal herald ran into the corner of the gardens in which their tea was taking place. A slow silence radiated in waves as people slowly became aware of the man. Myrcella shared a quick look with the other girl before standing, and drawing his attention to her. She pulled on the roar of the lion—shamefully easier than the bellow of a stag—in order to boost the sound of her voice.

“Herald. For what reason do you disturb this gathering?” The man swallowed, clearly wavering slightly before the pressure of her voice. After a few moments, he recovered himself and bowed deeply in her direction.

“Your highness. The Rei has been severely injured while on his hunt. The Guard and the Hand have rushed him back, but his survival is uncertain.” As soon as he fell silent, the gathering descended into a mess of not-so muted chatter. Myrcella shared a concerned look with Dame Tsonse before returning her gaze to the herald, tilting her head significantly at the exit as he met her eyes. Thankfully, the man nodded rapidly, and obediently slipped away before he could be cornered by any curious or scheming House members. _Speaking of_… Myrcella turned her attention to the two Tyrells gracing her table.

While neither she nor Tommen were yet of the age to marry, that was no deterrent for the ambitious and fast growing roses. She placed an obviously false smile on her face.

“Dame Vinruge Tyrell, Dame Tyrell. I trust you understand that the matters of which we were speaking earlier must be set aside for a later time?” Alerie Tyrell nodded at her, smiling sympathetically. She even bobbed a light curtsey as Myrcella stepped out around her chair; but then, the Premir Dame of the Mander was one of the sweetest women to ever survive the court. Her goodmother, on the other hand, was much more abrasive.

“Go on then, Princesse. I’m sure we can entertain ourselves while you discover if our oafish rei will survive.”

“Maere!”

“I’m not your mother, Alerie, and thank the gods for that!”

Dame Tyrell sputtered, and Myrcella almost choked, despite the wave of shock cresting over her. Taking the path of least resistance, Myrcella turned on her heel after nodding politely to the rest of the table and catching Dame Tsonse’s quickly hidden worry.

As they observed their princesse, her ladies rose to follow, as did the lone Reisguard man and three of the Royal Guard.

* * *

Tsonse pressed her lips together briefly before hiding her emotions behind a serene mask. Once Ujän Myrcella had disappeared into the larger gardens, she leaned over and whispered in _Princesse_ Thirin’s. The younger girl nodded, and the two of them rose, hand in hand. Tsonse tapped her teacup with a nail, pushing a bit of a wolf’s howl into it in order to strengthen the sound. She ignored the shock to her hand as the youngest Princesse clearly pulled on her own power.

She nodded to the usually retiring girl, who took a deep breath before saying, in an obviously augmented voice,

“_Mes seignurs et mes dames_. Out of respect for my uncle and the rest of the royal family, _Dame_ Ŝarqa and myself have elected to call an end to this gathering.” She hesitated at all the eyes now upon her, and Tsonse leaped into the gap, earning herself a grateful glance.

“You are all free to linger as long as you wish, but the _Princesse_ Baroddion and I will be leaving ourselves, and the servants will come along soon to clear things away.”

Fitting action to her words, Tsonse stepped back from the young_ Princesse_ to dip a curtsey accompanied by a small smile and a whispered plan to meet again in the gardens soon, before drifting purposely toward her ladies.

As they made their way gracefully back to the chambers of the Hand and his household, they were followed by the Tornish contingent, unsurprisingly to observant individuals among the Court.

* * *

Myrcella stood rigidly between her brothers, making eye contact with Seignur Ŝarq instead of the delirious, rolling gaze of the man whom the world assumed to be her father. Much to her relief, her mother had been barred from the rei’s chambers as soon as Robert Baroddion was situated upon his bed.

Unfortunately, the same could not be done with Mæster Pycelle, though Myrcella knew that everyone in the room minus the king, and perhaps his Hand, understood exactly who the perverted old man’s masters truly were. She watched his movements with alert eyes, never doubting that the potions and medicines he was forcing on the erstwhile monarch would hasten her step-father’s death.

Joffrey shifted on his feet, grumbling, clearly restless now that silence had mostly fallen. Myrcella flicked her eyes right in a nervous sideways glance. He had a frown on his face, and his eyes had that dangerous glint that always heralded danger for those around him. She cleared her throat.

“Mæster Pycelle, Seignur Hand.” Both men turned all their attention to her curiously.

“Prinze Tommen and myself are content to offer our father comfort, but I am certain you both realize the Prinze de la Coronne prefers a more active occupation. Is there anything he may to do to aid the Rei?” She very carefully ignored Joffrey’s pointed gaze burning into the side of her head.

Seignur Ŝarq blinked, and gave Mæster Pycelle an expectant look. The elderly man shook his head slowly, looking uncertain.

“Sadly there is not, Princesse. Perhaps the Prinze could work off his worry in the practice yards?” Joffrey squeezed her shoulder tightly—painfully so—in the manner that was his way of expressing (rare) thanks.

“Hound, come. Mæster Pycelle, see that I am informed if the Rei’s condition changes.”

“Of course, your Highness.” As Joffrey left, he was followed—much to her relief, by Jaime, Oncle Tyrion, and Chevalier Trent, the other Reisguard in the room, leaving Oncle Stanis, Oncle Renly, Seignur Ŝarq, Tommen, Mæster Pycelle, and herself.

An awkward silence fell once again, broken only by Tommen’s sniffles, and the moans of the delirious Rei. Myrcella took a deep breath, immediately regretting it, as the stench of mortified and rotting flesh filled her nose. She wrapped an arm around Tommen, trying to breath more shallowly, and wished Tsonse were here. The other girl would have already skillfully and subtly taken over the room.

She sighed slightly as Tommen tucked his head into the crook of her neck, the warm heat of his tears soaking into the shoulder of her silken gown.

“Mæster Pycelle.” He turned toward her, eyes wide in startlement, for she generally avoided him.

“P-Princesse. What is con-concerning your mind?” She drew herself up to an as imposing and regal height as possible, considering she had a clinging Tommen, and was not much over forty and eight inches.

“Is there much that can be done for my father asides from comfort?” The healer hemmed and hawed at first, despite her narrowing of the question, and finally, Oncle Stanis lost his temper.

“We all know he is dying, _achwr_. Do not attempt to deceive us!” He shared a short look with Oncle Renli as Pycelle stammered incoherently, before clearing his throat. “Tend to my goodsister. I am sure she is in need of your care.” Pycelle sputtered—whether in disbelief or anger was unclear—but could not deny the combined dissatisfaction of the king’s brothers, particularly not with Myrcella’s added request that he watch over her mother, who was surely struggling with this shock. Irritably, he disappeared from the king’s bedchambers, leaving Myrcella with no doubts as to whether he would report to her grandfather. She sighed, holding Tommen just the littlest bit tighter. At least Pycelle would be limited in what he could reveal due to his banishment.

As her step-father continued almost futilely to struggle for breath, Myrcella held Tommen out and away from her.

“Litleŋ. I am sure Perre would appreciate your comfort. How about you tell him of your studies, and your progress in the practice yard?” Tommen made a face at the endearment, but went to sit by the king after a long look at her. She turned to her uncles and Seignur Ŝarq, and steeled herself, drawing on her bosom friend’s serenity. Sinking into a much deeper curtsey than likely any of them expected, she faced toward Oncle Stanis.

“Prinze de la Coronne, I beg mercy in regard to your dealings with myself and Tommen.” Though she had spoken lowly, the silence following her words was stunning in its loudness. She held her curtsey, but raised her head anxiously, only to be faced with a studiously blank expression from Oncle Stanis. She didn’t dare look left at Oncle Renli. Rigid with tension, she almost collapsed in relief when Seignur Ŝarq broke the uncomfortable silence.

“I_ had_ wondered at your fast friendship with my daughter, _Ujän_ Myrcella. What has she promised you?” She pressed her lips together, cheeks hot.

“…Protection, mun seignur. She informed me she would do her best to find proof without injury to myself or Tommen.” She hoped Tommen didn’t notice the sharply in-drawn breaths from both her uncles. She watched the Hand carefully and silently—Seignur Ŝarq looked both unsurprised and thoughtful. Finally, Oncle Stanis spoke, serious as ever.

“I will not make any final decision before further discussion.” He turned to Seignur Ŝarq.

“Seignur Hand. How secure are your rooms?”

“More than enough for such a conference.” Oncle Stanis nodded, and cleared his throat.

“Seignur Ŝarq, have the Reine confined to her chambers. I will send my men to guard her doors. Myrcella, go with your brother to the Hand’s apartments. And send a note to Brimwæs Waters, informing him of a meeting in the Hand’s solar.” Myrcella nodded, a hopeful lump tight in her throat. He coughed, looking uneasy, before turning to Oncle Renli. “Renli. Find Varys, and do the same. And your Tyrell. Bring him too.” Her younger uncle sounded surprised as he agreed to Oncle Stannis’ demands. Myrcella’s mind was whirling madly as the four of them all began to move toward the door.

Tommen’s distressed call halted them in their tracks.

“Myrcella! Oncle Stanis! Something is wrong with father—look at this vial!” Myrcella could feel her eyes widening in shock that Mæster Pycelle had managed such carelessness. Her elder uncle took the crystalline vial her brother handed him with a frown, sniffing it cautiously before shaking his head and handing it off to Seignur Ŝarq.

“Do you recognize this, Seignur Yejyer?” The Hand stared at the vial for a few long moments, his grey eyes almost black before turning to Myrcella’s brother.

“_Ganjuä_ Tommen. Tell me what roused your suspicions with this substance.” Her brother bit his lip and swung his foot nervously before answering.

“I, I don’t know what it is, mun seignur. But it looks like blood. And…I saw it the last time Mæster Pycelle taught me about medicines. It, it was on the shelf he told me to never touch, upon pain of death.” Myrcella couldn’t help shuddering at the expression on Seignur Ŝarq’s face. She had never seen anyone look so coldly furious in her life—not even her mother.

“Thank you, _Ganjuä_ Tommen. Go with your sister to my apartments. Your uncles and I will be there shortly.” Her brother nodded, looking at her with confused, wide eyes. Myrcella sighed, and beckoned Tommen over, nodding.

“Tommen, Dame Tsonse and her retinue will be there, naturally. Haven’t you missed them?” Tommen brightened suddenly, nodding, and bouncing over to her after softly whispering something in the insensible king’s ear. Myrcella managed a small smile and twined her arm with his. She managed not to jump when Oncle Stanis whispered in her ear.

“Have Seignur Tyrion and a few of my guards take you to the Hand’s rooms. Chevalier Celtigar can be trusted with your message.”

“It will be done, mun prinze,” Myrcella whispered, and steered Tommen out of the king’s rooms.

* * *

Stanis Baroddion waited until he heard the murmurs and slight clatter of his men, and the higher lilt of Cersei’s daughter before he asked the question that had been on his mind since the Hand began clenching the vial so tightly his knuckles went white—an impressive accomplishment considering the Northron lord paramount’s darker complexion.

“What poison is it, mun seignur?”

“Widow’s blood, Prinze Stanis.” He cursed fluently, and heard Renli beside him follow suit.

“A nasty manner to die, even with his injuries,” his brother said once he’d recovered himself. Yejyer Ŝarq nodded. “Aye. Shall we ask the Mæster some questions?” Stanis pressed his lips together, thinking rapidly.

“Give me the vial.” Ŝarq handed it over with no protest, and Stanis stalked out, slamming open the doors.

The other two lords followed close behind him.

* * *

Both Cersei and the Mæster blanched at the sight of the vial before Stanis had even said a word.

“Hold them both,” he directed his men. For once, they needed no pleading to follow his orders, looking practically gleeful as they restrained a sputtering Pycelle, and a furious Cersei. The Rei Slayer looked about to explode to his sister’s defense, but a glaring Chevalier Sellmi, and Seignur Yejyer’s hand on Ice restrained him.

“This is widow’s blood,” he announced to the room. “It was by the bedside of the king. Precisely where Mæster Pycelle was treating him.” A wave of reactions swept the room, making Stanis _very_ glad any children were currently elsewhere. Even the Reisguard appeared shocked.

“Mæster Pycelle will be remanded to the Black Cells,” the Hand said firmly. Stanis nodded at his men, who needed no further encouragement to manhandle and otherwise punish a man they saw as a cowardly turncoat. As the elderly man’s muffled protests slowly faded, Stanis stalked closer to Cersei, who looked practically incandescent.

“Ma reine. I would _request_—” he laid a heavy emphasis on the word “—that you stay in your rooms with absolutely no visitors for the next few days.” He smiled thinly at her. “My men have requested the _honor_ of guarding your doors to ensure your peace.” No further prompting was needed to march her out of the solar, the Lannister woman practically spitting at him in fury.

Stanis handed the vial back to Ŝarq, who took it silently, and crossed his arms, fixing each of the Reisguard in the room—Sellmi, Trent, and Lannister.

“You will be guarding my brothers bedchamber for the foreseeable future._ Never_ leave it unguarded. No one is to be let in, save for myself, Seignur Renli, or the Seignur Hand.” An awkward silence fell. “Is. That. Understood.”

“Aye, mun prinze,” the three men chorused, Chevalier Sellmi looking uncomfortable, Lannister sullen, and Trent as stony as ever.

“Good.” And with that, Stanis turned on his heel, Renli, Ŝarq, and Davos following quickly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the phrasing with Myrcella is alluding to magic. Some families have stronger powers than others, and all refer to it differently. Some commoners have magic, but usually it is either hedge-magic or they have a noble bastard in their heritage. Very occasionally old commoner families will have line-based magic of their own. Basically, you generally need a long established lineage for magic to pop up reliably. 
> 
> I didn’t know this, but evidently the technical title of the head of the Tyrells is Lord Paramount of the Mander
> 
> I am making up the attributes of widow’s blood beyond the color, though its effects and existence are canonical. 
> 
> If Tommen’s attitude seems weird, I need to remind you that he’s not even eight yet in early 299. Seven-year-olds can be perceptive, but even adults struggle to cope with death.


End file.
